OLD  VIRGINIA 

GENTLEMAN 

AND   OTHER  SKETCHES 


GEORGE  W.  BAGBY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


■J&XU+ 


THE  OLD 
VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN 

AND  OTHER  SKETCHES 


THE    OLD 
VIRGINIA    GENTLEMAN 

AND  OTHER  SKETCHES 


BY 

GEORGE  W.  BAGBY 


EDITED    WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION   BY 
THOMAS    NELSON    PAGE 


1 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1910 


Copyright,  1884,  1885,  by 
MRS.  GEORGE  W.  BAGBY 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  September,  1910 


• •  \  : 

•  ••■••    •  •   •     ,    ■ 


•  •  « 

•  •  •  < 


! 


PREFACE 

A  VIRGINIA  REALIST 

Virginia,  mother  of  States  and  statesmen,  as  she 
used  to  be  called,  has  contributed  many  men  of  worth 
to  the  multitude  that  America  can  number.     All  her 
sons  have  loved  her  well,  while  many  have  reflected 
great  honor  on  her.     But  of  them  all,  none  has  known 
how   to  draw  her  portrait  like   that  one  who  years 
ago,  under  the  mild  voice  and  quiet  exterior  of  State 
Librarian    and    occasional    contributor    to    the    Peri- 
odical Press,  hid  the  soul  of  a  man  of  letters  and  an 
artist.     Like  many  another  man  of  letters  who  has  en- 
riched the  world,  George  W.  Bagby,  before  he  "found 
himself,"  studied  for  a  professional  career— that  vesti- 
bule to  literature.     He  was  first  educated  in  part  at 
Princeton,  and  later  took  the  degree  of  M.D.  at  the 
University  of  Pennsylvania.     After  this  he  set  up  in 
Lynchburg,  Virginia,  as  a  practitioner  of  medicine.    But 
the  pen  was  much  more  grateful  to  his  hand  than  the 
scalpel.     He  had  the  gift  of  seeing  through  the  outer 
shell  to  the  heart,  and  he  soon  began  seeking  in  the 


PREFACE 

columns  of  the  nearest  newspaper  the  expression  of 
his  dreams.  His  first  article  to  attract  attention  was 
a  paper  on  Christmas,  published  as  an  editorial  in  the 
Lynchburg  Virginian.  It  brought  him  one  great  re- 
ward. It  led  to  a  life-long  friendship  with  the  ac- 
complished gentleman,  James  MacDonald,  who  then 
edited  the  paper  and  became  later  the  Secretary  of 
State  of  Virginia.  To  this  friendship  Doctor  Bagby 
years  afterwards  owed  the  appointment  of  Assistant 
Secretary  of  State  and  Librarian  of  the  State  Library, 
where,  among  the  masters,  his  soul  found  society  of 
its  own  rank.  All  his  life,  much  of  his  work  was 
thrown  into  the  devouring  maw  of  the  daily  press. 
His  latest  essays,  as  among  his  first,  were  papers  which 
passed  for  letters  or  editorials,  but  were  really  literary 
essays  which  masked  under  these  ephemeral  names. 
Among  these  early  contributions  was  the  sketch  entitled 
"The  Sacred  Furniture  Warerooms,"  which  is  in- 
cluded in  this  volume.  They  gave  him  local  celebrity, 
but  nothing  more. 

Local  men  of  letters  were  not  highly  esteemed  in 
Virginia  in  the  old  days — at  least,  not  professional  men 
of  letters  who  bore  the  traces  of  the  soil  on  them.  Her 
treasured  genius  ran  in  the  direction  of  the  forum  or 
the  tented  field,  where  personal  courage  was  always 

to  be  shown  as  the  badge  of  honor.     Thus,  her  men 

vi 


PREFACE 

of  ability  mainly  turned  to  these  professions,  and  such 
literary  gifts  as  Nature  bestowed  were  mainly  applied 
to  the  advocacy  of  governmental  problems  or  to  the 
polemics  of  political  journalism. 

William  Wirt,  who  was  a  man  of  letters,  concealed 
his  passion  under  a  pseudonym  and  only  ventured  to 
declare  himself  in  a  biography  of  one  of  Virginia's 
great  orators  after  he  had  achieved  fame  as  a  noted 
lawyer. 

"  Why  do  you  waste  your  time  on  a  d d  thing 

like  poetry?"  demanded  a  neighbor  of  Philip  Pendle- 
ton Cooke,  the  author  of  "Florence  Vane."  "A  man 
of  your  position  might  be  a  useful  man." 

Even  Poe,  with  a  genius  that  is  acknowledged  the 
world  over  and  that  has  never  been  surpassed  in  its 
kind,  was  never  able  to  break  through  the  defences 
with  which  established  habit  bulwarked  itself  among 
the  burghers  of  Richmond  and  New  York,  and  com- 
pel recognition  of  his  extraordinary  powers.  His 
story  is  the  saddest  in  the  long  line  of  neglected  artists 
whose  fate  it  has  been  to  achieve  fame  too  late  to  save 
them  from  perishing  from  want,  of  which  destitution, 
want  of  food  was  the  least  part. 

Next  to  Poe,  the  most  original  of  all  Virginia  writers 

was  he  whose  reputation  in  his  lifetime  mainly  rested 

on  humorous  sketches  of  a  mildly  satirical  and  exceed- 

vii 


PREFACE 

ingly  original  type;  but  who  was  master  of  a  pathos 
rarely  excelled  by  any  author  and  rarely  equalled  by 
any  American  author.  Like  Poe,  his  work  was  known 
among  his  contemporaries  merely  by  a  small  coterie 
of  friends.     But  these  adored  him. 

Poe  was  the  master  of  the  absolutely  imaginative 
sketch  or  tale — so  purely  imaginative  that  to  discover 
any  local  color  by  which  to  give  it  locality  it  is  necessary 
to  analyze  the  work  for  unintentional  traces  of  his 
surroundings.  George  W.  Bagby,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  absolutely  realistic — so  purely  realistic  that  no  one 
can  read,  even  at  random,  a  page  of  his  genre  sketches 
and  not  recognize  at  once  the  truth  of  the  picture,  and 
— if  he  be  a  Virginian — point  to  its  original.  He  was 
not  a  fictionist  but  a  realist. 

He  scarcely  ever  penned  a  line  that  was  not  inspired 
by  his  love  of  Virginia  and  his  appreciation  of  the 
life  lived  within  her  borders.  Nearly  all  he  wrote  was 
of  Virginia,  pure  and  simple.  Her  love  had  sunk  into 
his  blood.  But  while  he  pictured  Virginia,  he  reflected 
the  human  nature  of  the  universe.  He  is  set  down  in 
a  recent  biographical  encyclopaedia  merely  as  "  Physi- 
cian and  Humorist."  He  was  much  more  than  this. 
He  was  a  physician  by  profession;  a  humorist  by  the 
way;  but  God  made  him  a  man  of  letters. 

That  portion  of  his  work,  indeed,  which  brought 

viii 


PREFACE 

him  most  note  in  his  lifetime  among  those  who  knew 
him  were  his  humorous  sketches  and  skits  written  in 
a  sort  of  phonetic  dialect  which  was  the  fashion  of  the 
time.     It  borders  on  broad  farce,  and,  while  it  was 
always  original  and  entertaining,    its    quaint  humor, 
its  most  telling  allusions,  so  often  turned  on  local  celebri- 
ties or  histories  as  to  lose  their  point  with  the  out- 
side reader.     Thus,  the  "Mozis  Addums's  Letters"; 
"Meekinses*  Twinses"  and  "What  I  Did  with  My 
Fifty    Millions,"    however    amusing    to    the    general 
reader,  could  only  be  fully  appreciated  by  those  who 
hold  the  key  to  constant  allusion  to  the  Society  of 
Richmond,  which  furnished  the  field  of  his  harmless 
satire.      "Meekinses'    Twinses"    brought    him    more 
immediate  fame  than  any  other  of  his  writings;  but 
who  that  did  not  know  the  author  and  his  surroundings 
could  appreciate  the  picture  of  "Meekins,  the  weevle- 
eatenest  man,  I  ever  see!"     Often  in  a  line  he  drew  a 
portrait  so  humorous,  yet  so  exact,  that  acquaintances 
laughed  over  it  for  years.     But  they  were  portraits  for 
his  private  collection  and  not  for  the  public,  and  it  is 
on  his  tenderer  work  that  his  literary  fame  must  rest 
in  the  future. 

Among  all  Virginia's  writers  few  have  had  the  love 
to  feel  and  the  gift  to  portray  the  Virginia  life  as  Bagby 
had.     He  was  the  first    to  picture  Virginia  as  she  was. 

ix 


PREFACE 

Other  writers  had  magnified  her  through  an  idealism 
colored  by  reading  of  other  life  and  other  times.  Caru- 
thers,  Simms,  Kennedy,  Cooke  and  other  Southern 
writers  all  pictured  the  life  of  the  South  as  reflected 
through  the  lenses  of  Scott,  and  his  imitators,  such  as 
James.  They  dressed  their  gentlemen  in  wigs  and 
ruffles  and  short  clothes  and  their  ladies  in  brocades  and 
quilted  stomachers  and  flashing  jewels;  housed  them 
in  palaces  and  often  moved  them  on  stilts  with  measured 
strut  as  automata  strung  on  wires  and  worked,  how- 
ever skilfully,  from  behind  the  scenes.  They  spoke 
book-English  and  lived,  if  they  lived  at  all,  in  slavish 
imitation  of  men  of  England,  mirrored  from  the  printed 
page  of  generations  gone.  The  scenes  were  painted 
and  so  were  the  life  and  the  speech.  It  was  generally 
well  done,  often  admirably  done,  but  it  was  not  real. 
And  our  people  read  English  books,  instead  of  Ameri- 
can, to  Poe's  sad  chagrin. 

In  this  desert  of  unreality  came  a  new  writer,  a  con- 
tributor to  newspapers  and  magazines,  who,  discarding 
the  stilts  and  the  struts  and  the  painted  palaces, 
pictured  the  old  Virginia  homesteads  set  back,  simple 
and  peaceful  and  plain,  under  their  immemorial  oaks 
and  locusts,  with  the  life  lived  there  with  its  sweetness 
and  simplicity  and  tender  charm.  Like  Poe  he  was 
not  generally  valued — he  was  not  an  historian,  nor 


PREFACE 

even  a  novelist — only  a  writer  of  sketches.  He  had 
no  fixed  occupation  and  probably  no  fixed  income. 
At  least,  his  income  must  have  been  meagre.  Had  he 
paid  attention  to  business,  he  might  possibly,  though 
not  probably,  have  been  a  "Useful  Man."  As  it  was, 
he  was  rather  given  to  wandering  about  the  country, 
writing  humorous  sketches  of  life  for  the  press — 
"Wasting  his  time  on  a  damned  thing  like  poetry,"  for 
he  wrote  poetry  though  not  generally  verse. 

Much  of  his  work  was  lost.  Other  parts  of  it 
drifted  into  the  wide  main  of  anonymous  writing,  or 
was  boldly  claimed  by  others  as  their  property — as  for 
example,  his  description  of  "How  Rubenstein  Played," 
which  is  famous  enough  to  be  in  all  readers  though 
unattributed  to  its  author.  [But  for  all  this  he  has  his 
reward,  for  he  has  preserved  the  life  of  the  people  be 
loved  and  given  it  the  charm  that  was  its  chief  grace — 
simplicity] 

When  the  old  life  shall  have  completely  passed  away 
as  all  life  of  a  particular  kind  must  pass,  the  curious 
reader  may  find  in  George  W  Raghv'si  pigpg  pirtnrpd 
with  a  sympathy, ^-fidelity  and  an  ^fi-w&ch-may  he 
found  nowhere  else,  the  old  Virginia  lifp.  prppiyiy-ng 
it  was  lived  before  the  war,  in  the  tidewater^ancLsouth- 
side^sections  of  Virginia,.  If  it  was  idealized — as,  when 
was  anything  written  of  with  enthusiasm  not  ideal- 

xi 


PREFACE 

ized  ? — the  character  and  the  portraiture  alike  were 
faithfully  drawn,  even  if  touched  with  a  light  of  imagi- 
nation; and  the  true  secret  of  the  art  that  portrayed 
them  was  the  artist's  love  of  the  subject.  He  first  of 
all  discovered  that  in  the  simple  plantation  homes  was 
a  life  more  beautiful  and  charming  than  any  that  the 
gorgeous  palaces  could  reveal,  and  that  its  best  presen- 
tation was  that  which  had  the  divine  beauty  of  truth. 

It  is  always  difficult  to  gauge  the  measure  of  influ- 
ences, but  one  writer  has  always  felt  that  to  George  W. 
Bagby's  pioneer  work  among  the  memories  of  the  old 
Virginia  life  in  its  simplicity  he  owes  an  unending 
debt  of  gratitude.  He  opened  his  eyes  to  the  beauty 
that  lay  at  hand  and  whispered  into  his  ear  the  charm 
that  sang  to  his  soul  of  the  South. 

I  cannot  forbear,  in  closing  this  preface,  to  quote 
his  own  words  from  the  close  of  his  essay  on  "  The 
Old  Virginia  Gentleman,"  to  my  mind-  the  most 
charming  picture  of  American  life  ever  drawn. 

"  I  ask  no  man's  pardon  for  what  must  seem  to  a 
stranger  a  most  exaggerated  estimate  of  my  State  and 
its  people.  In  simple  truth  and  beyond  question  there 
was  in  our  Virginia  country  life  a  beauty,  a  simplicity, 
a  purity,  an  uprightness,  a  cordial  and  lavish  hospi- 
tality, warmth  and  grace  which  shine  in  the  lens  of 

memory  with  a  charm  that  passes  all  language  at  my 

xii 


PREFACE 

command.  It  is  gone  with  the  social  structure  that 
gave  it  birth,  and  were  I  great,  I  would  embalm  it  in 
the  amber  of  such  prose  and  verse  as  has  not  been 
written  since  John  Milton  laid  down  his  pen.  Only 
greatness  can  fitly  do  it." 

As  the  years  pass  by,  the  life  he  pictured  so  tenderly 
has  faded  more  and  more  into  the  misty  vague  of  the 
past;  but  it  cannot  be  wholly  lost.  Axlimpses  of  it  have 
been  preserved  by  a  master's  pencil;  and  it  is  in  the 
hope  of  giving  others  the  privilege  which  I  have  enjoyed 
so  much  that  I  have  undertaken  to  edit  this  volume 
of  the  writings  of  George  W.  Bagbyy 

Thomas  Nelson  Page. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

preface,  "a  virginia  realist,"  by  thomas 

nelson  page v 

sketch  of  the  life  of   george   william 

bagby,  by  edward  s.  gregory     .    .    .  xvh 

i.    the  old  virginia  gentleman      ....  1 

ii.     bacon  and  greens 45 

iii.     my  uncle  flatback's  plantation     ...  69 

iv.     my  wife  and  my  theory  about  wives     .  107 

v.     fishing  in  the  appomattox 121 

vi.    an  unrenowned  warrior 135 

vii.     john  m.  Daniel's  latch-key 166 

viii.     the  virginia  editor 217 

ix.     canal  reminiscences 230 

x.    the  sacred  furniture  wareroom  .    .     .  250 

xi.     my  vile  beard 257 

xii.    a  piece  about  doctors 280 

xiii.     the  pawnee  war 290 

xiv.     how  rubenstein  played 301 

xv.     fill  joanses 308 

xvi.     after  appomattox 311 

xv 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY 

The  call  of  death  has  often  proved  an  evangel  to 
the  man  of  letters  in  more  than  one  way. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch,  though  widely  known 
throughout  the  Republic,  and  for  years  a  dear  guest 
in  many  homes  of  Virginia,  though  he  loved  and  sought 
society,  shared  the  same  fate  of  misconception,  or  of 
inadequate  conception,  till  death  drew  the  veil  and 
revealed  the  true  proportions  of  his  mental  and  moral 
manhood. 

The  main  facts  that  punctuate  the  life  and  literary 
labors  of  George  William  Bagby  may  be  briefly  re- 
cited. The  career  of  the  man  and  the  litterateur  was 
largely  professional,  and  may  be  left  to  find  popular 
interpretation  from  the  list  and  order  of  his  works. 
The  present  volume  introduces  these  but  imperfectly 
and  in  part  to  the  reading  world.  But  if  it  fulfil  its 
mission,  and  if  the  present  generation  prove  able  to 
appreciate  and  admire  the  mingled  idyl  and  epic  in 
which  Dr.  Bagby  has  embalmed  the  heroic  and  poetic 
Virginia  of  the  past,  some  image  may  be  formed,  some 
memory  quickened  of  one  to  whom  many  sins,  if  such 
there  were,  should  be  remitted — "for  he  loved  much." 

Dr.  Bagby  was  born  in  the  very  heart  of  Virginia, 
in  the  county  of  Buckingham,  on  August  13,  1828. 

xvii 


GEOKGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

The  section  in  which  he  first  saw  the  light  was  char- 
acteristic of  the  man.  It  lies  at  the  roots  of  the  Blue 
Ridge;  its  social  traits  and  genealogies  are  of  the  East, 
and  its  location,  though  south  of  the  James,  is  near 
the  natural  continuation  of  the  great  valley.  In  one 
respect,  especially,  Buckingham  was  rich:  in  the  facili- 
ties it  afforded  for  the  study  of  the  peculiarities  of 
negro  dialect,  fetich,  and  other  and  all  racial  idiosyn- 
crasies. Never  was  there  an  apter  pupil  than  the  boy 
Bagby,  since  George  Borrow  made  himself  master  of 
the  Romany  Lil. 

As  Bceotia  was  the  right  home  of  Pindar  and  Tyr- 
tseus,  so  was  this  central  county,  with  its  wealth  of 
black  diamonds  of  every  hue  and  form  of  originality 
and  individuality,  the  right  school  for  one  who  was 
destined  to  prove  no  less  than  the  very  Dickens  and 
Shakespeare  of  the  Virginia  negro. 

Dr.  Bagby 's  father  was  a  merchant  of  Lynchburg; 
his  mother's  maiden  name  was  Evans — a  patronymic 
that  reappears  in  the  letters  of  Mozis  Addums.  Dr. 
Bagby  was  educated  at  Princeton,  N.  J.,  and  at  New- 
ark, Del.,  under  the  tuition  of  the  late  Dr.  John  S. 
Hart,  one  of  the  best  of  men  and  of  teachers,  who  gave 
him  an  honored  place  in  the  Professor's  "  Manual  of 
American  Literature "  (pp.  452-453).  At  the  end  of 
his  sophomore  year  in  Delaware  College,  young  Bagby 
(now  eighteen  years  old)  began  the  study  of  medicine, 
and  in  due  time  took  his  regular  degree  of  M.D.  at 
the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  at  Philadelphia.  He 
then  removed  to  Lynchburg,  where  his  father  lived,  to 
practice,  and  he  hung  out  his  sign  in  front  of  a  tene- 

xviii 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

merit  that  then  stood  on  the  site  of  the  now  stately 
Opera  House  of  that  city.  But  it  may  be  doubted  if 
really  he  ever  attended  half  a  dozen  cases.  By  a  law, 
however,  as  sure  as  that  which  rules  the  courses  of 
gravitation,  Bagby  soon  found,  without  seeking,  the 
career  for  which  every  endowment  of  nature  had  copi- 
ously prepared  and  deliberately  dedicated  him.  The 
Virginian  of  Lynchburg,  founded  in  1808,  was  then 
edited  by  James  McDonald,  Esq.,  since  Secretary  of 
the  Commonwealth  and  Adjutant-General  of  Virginia, 
to  whom,  ten  years  after,  Dr.  Bagby  wrote  the  tribute 
in  "Blue  Eyes,"  that  he  "was  essentially  a  gentleman." 
To  him,  as  to  a  kindred,  even  brother  spirit,  in  cult- 
ure and  humanity,  the  young  and  eccentric  stranger 
was  naturally  magnetized.  Those  were  the  good  old 
days  when  people  had  plenty  of  elbow-room.  When 
the  editor  was  absent,  his  friend  took  his  place;  and 
under  this  gateway  of  locum  tenens  Dr.  Bagby  made 
his  way  upon  the  stage  which  he  afterward  so  widely 
and  so  luminously  filled.  It  was  a  happy  omen  that, 
on  the  appearance  of  his  very  first  contribution,  an  edi- 
torial article  on  "Christmas,"  the  town  was  taken  by 
storm,  and  saw,  as  was  said  of  Macaulay's  "Milton," 
that  a  new  star  had  risen  above  the  horizon.  But  "the 
Dean  could  write  beautifully  about  a  broomstick." 
Sketch  after  sketch  rapidly  followed,  some  of  which 
are  included  in  this  volume,  and  all  of  which  are  as 
well  worthy  to  live  as  the  earlier  essays  of  Thackeray 
or  Lamb;  appearing  in  the  poverty  of  literary  appa- 
ratus in  Virginia,  for  the  most  part  as  editorial  articles 
in  the  Virginian.     Among  such  was  the  essay  entitled 

xix 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

"The  Sacred  Furniture  Warerooms,"  which  neither 
Addison  nor  Irving  would  have  disowned.  Dr.  Bagby 
has  said  to  the  writer  that  his  literary  fertility  at  that 
time  was  prodigious.  He  must  have  read  ravenously 
also.  Meanwhile,  too,  he  was  a  man  about  town,  and 
was  known  for  a  genius,  and  for  one  who  would  make, 
or  had  indeed  already  made,  a  shining  mark. 

Labor  and  fame  came  crowding  upon  him  suddenly, 
as  the  fruit  of  this  local  distinction,  and  from  the  in- 
spiration of  this  local  success.  Early  in  the  fifties,  the 
Lynchburg  Express,  a  paper  founded,  and  for  some 
years  conducted,  by  the  late  Hudson  Garland,  came 
into  the  possession  of  Dr.  Bagby  and  his  life-long 
friend,  the  late  Capt.  George  Woodville  Latham — 
another  rare  and  lit  spirit,  too  soon  involved  in  the 
damps  of  disease  and  the  arrest  of  death.  But  the 
business  management  was  neglected  or  ill-managed; 
and  the  Express — fortunately  for  Bagby — became  num- 
bered among  Lynchburg  epitaphs  and  eclipses. 

During  this  time,  Dr.  Bagby  wrote  several  articles 
that  were  published  in  Harper's  Magazine.  One  of 
these  was  entitled  "My  Wife,  and  My  Theory  about 
Wives" — a  specimen  of  sentimental  extravaganza 
worthy  of  the  hand  which  traced  the  shadowy  and 
sacred  image  of  the  lost  love  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 
Another  was  entitled  "The  Virginia  Editor,"  and  was 
a  burlesque  character  sketch  of  the  swaggering,  duel- 
ling, and  drinking  soi-disant  "  Colonel,"  who  then  only 
too  often  represented  the  power  of  the  press  in  the 
sunny  South. 

It  was  professedly  a  caricature;    and  it  had  been 

xx 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

shown,  before  its  appearance,  as  a  good  joke,  to  nu- 
merous journalistic  friends.  Yet,  when  it  was  pub- 
lished, one  of  these  was  induced  by  other  persons  to 
regard  it  as  an  assault  upon  himself.  He  sent  there- 
upon a  challenge,  which  was  promptly  accepted;* 
seconds  were  named;  Captain  Latham  for  Bagby,  and 
Roger  A.  Pryor  for  the  party  of  the  second  part. 
Bladensburg  was  reached;  the  preliminaries  were  ad- 
justed, and  the  principals  took  position.  At  this  criti- 
cal moment,  a  hack  arrived  containing  the  Hon. 
Thomas  S.  Bocock,  then  a  Member  of  Congress,  and  a 
friend  of  all  parties,  through  whose  efforts  the  quarrel 
was  composed,  and  everybody  sent  about  his  pacific 
business. 

The  collapse  of  the  Express  gave  to  each  of  its  two 
editors  more  congenial  employment,  and  an  ampler 
field.  Through  the  influence  of  Mr.  Wm.  M.  Semple, 
lately  before  the  associate  editor  of  the  Lynchburg 
Virginian,  and  at  that  time  correspondent  at  Wash- 
ington of  the  New  Orleans  Crescent,  Dr.  Bagby  was 
promoted  to  the  latter  position;  and,  through  family 
influence,  Woodville  Latham  was  employed  as  clerk 
of  the  Naval  Committee  of  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives. 

It  was  the  destiny  of  one  to  be  a  dreamer,  a  poet; 
and  not  much  that  he  dreamed  took  a  living  form; 
but  Bagby  must  have  been  a  dauntless  and  indefati- 
gable laborer,  and  the  mere  list  of  the  publications  for 
which  he  wrote  affords  proof  of  his  heroic  industry 

*  "  George  had  all  sorts  of  good  pluck,  and  plenty  of  it;  he 
was  not  afraid  of  any  man's  face  on  earth." — Dr.  H.  G.  L. 

xxi 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

and  of  the  fatal  fertility  of  his  genius.  Besides  the 
Crescent  (in  those  days,  remember,  his  letters  were 
quasi  editorial  and  had  even  a  greater  weight  than 
that  of  mere  local  comment),  he  corresponded  regularly 
for  the  Charleston  Mercury  and  the  Richmond  Dis- 
patch, and  wrote  copiously  for  the  Southern  Literary 
Messenger,  and  sometimes  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 
It  was  through  the  medium  of  the  Messenger  that  he 
lodged  his  first  deep  and  popular  impression  as  a 
humorous  writer.  It  may  be  questioned  whether  any- 
thing of  a  racier  flavor,  free  from  slang,  yet  fresh  as 
dawn  dew  with  idioms  of  the  heart  and  hearth ;  whether 
anything  of  more  sylvan  depth  and  of  more  natural 
oddity  and  simplicity  ever  saw  the  light,  than  the  "  Let- 
ters of  Mozis  Addums  to  Billy  Evans  of  Kurdsville," 
in  which  the  society,  the  man-traps,  and  the  wonders 
of  Washington  City  are  described  by  a  rustic  writer  to 
a  rustic  friend.  The  correspondent  is  represented  as 
visiting  the  capital  to  procure  a  patent  for  a  machine 
of  his  invention,  for  executing  his  idea  of  perpetual 
motion.  An  amiable  and  virtuous  Irish  servant-girl 
rescues  him  out  of  a  number  of  scrapes,  and  Addums 
ends  by  marrying  her. 

Soon  after  this  performance,  John  R.  Thompson, 
one  of  the  best  beloved  of  the  sons  of  song,  resigned 
the  editorial  chair  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
to  become  the  editor  of  the  Field  and  Farm,  of  New 
York.  The  very  terms  of  the  announcement  signified 
to  those  who  were  anyway  behind  the  scenes,  that  Dr. 
Bagby  had  virtually  already  succeeded  to  the  tripod  of 
the  magazine  from  which  no  less  a  seer  than  Edgar  A. 

xxii 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

Poe  had  once  spoken.  And  so  he  had,  as  the  title- 
page  of  the  next  issue  announced.  Whatever  the  pres- 
tige with  which  he  entered  upon  the  discharge  of  his 
duties,  the  pressure  and  perplexities  of  the  situation 
were  all  adverse.  In  other  words,  there  could  be  at 
the  South,  as  at  that  time,  no  purely  literary  work,  or 
literary  leisure,  when  the  very  air  was  saturated  with 
politics,  and,  no  more  than  religion,  could  literature 
resist  its  access.  Yet  the  volume  of  the  Messenger  for 
1860  will  be  found  to  contain  critical  and  creative  work 
in  quite  a  notable  degree,  and  of  a  high  order  of  merit. 
The  romaunt  of  "Blue  Eye  and  Battlewick,"  a  Christ- 
mas story,  to  some  extent,  perhaps,  an  unconscious 
imitation  of  Dickens,  but  altogether  sui  generis,  and 
like  the  echoes  in  Ireland  and  in  Ossian,  which  repeat 
what  they  hear  with  variations  of  their  own — ran 
through  this  volume  of  the  Messenger,  in  five  instal- 
ments: January — May.  Many  minor  sketches  ac- 
companied the  unfolding  of  the  "Blue  Eyes"  story, 
and  the  editorial  department  was  always  kept  full  and 
fresh.  In  it  Dr.  Bagby  defended  the  rights  of  the 
South,  till,  high  over  the  noises  of  the  press  and  the 
clamor  of  orators,  rose  suddenly  and  rudely  the  sharp 
thunder  from  Sumter,  and  the  war  was  flagrant. 
Though  wholly  unfitted,  physically,  Bagby  entered  the 
ranks  as  a  private,  and  was  found  with  the  earliest 
troops  who  were  assembled  at  Manassas.  There,  fort- 
unately, he  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  General 
Beauregard's  chief  of  staff,  and  was,  in  part,  relieved 
of  duties  of  which  he  was  incapable,  by  being  detailed 
for  clerical  work  at  head-quarters.     It  was  not  long, 

xxiii 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

however,  before  his  health  proved  inadequate  for  even 
this  service,  and  he  was  given  a  final  discharge. 

Resuming  his  profession,  he  sang  the  songs  of  a 
nation,  while  others  fought  its  battles  and  made  its 
laws. 

Through  every  difficulty  and  over  every  obstacle — 
the  scarcity  of  paper  and  skilled  labor,  the  absence 
of  competent  assistance  of  every  kind,  and  the  ever- 
dwindling  Confederate  ration — Dr.  Bagby  sustained 
the  Messenger  till  its  proprietorship  changed,  in  1864, 
and  then  laid  down  the  burden,  having  fought  the  good 
fight  with  unfaltering  courage. 

Besides  the  magazine,  Dr.  Bagby  performed,  dur- 
ing the  war,  a  vast  amount  of  literary  and  journalistic 
work.  He  was  the  correspondent,  at  the  Confederate 
capital,  of  every  Southern  paper  that  could  secure  the 
favor  of  being  represented  by  him:  the  Mobile  Regis- 
ter, the  Memphis  Appeal,  the  Columbus,  Ga.,  Sun,  the 
Charleston  Mercury,  and  others,  besides  his  regular 
service  for  some  years  as  editorial  contributor  to  the 
Richmond  Whig,  of  which  his  friend  McDonald  had 
become  the  editor.  His  boldness  of  comment  on  the 
course  of  events  within  the  ill-starred  Confederacy  led 
him  to  write  occasionally  for  the  Richmond  Examiner, 
though  he  did  not  approve,  in  general,  its  reckless 
method.  His  intercourse  with  the  editor  of  the  Ex- 
aminer gave  him  material  for  the  sketch  published 
shortly  after  the  war,  entitled,  "John  M.  Daniel's 
Latch-key."  Besides  his  work  on  the  papers  men- 
tioned, Bagby  wrote  brilliant  articles  for  the  Southern 
Illustrated  News,  and  was  every  way  useful. 

xxiv 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

The  success  of  Dr.  Bagby  before  and  during  the 
war  well  justified  his  seeking  to  pursue  in  New  York 
a  journalistic  and  literary  career.  His  disability  in 
this  line,  by  reason  of  the  loss  in  part  of  his  eyesight, 
induced  him  to  enter  the  lecturing  field,  in  which  a 
rich  reception  and  a  bountiful  harvest  awaited  him. 
More  than  that,  his  choice  of  a  new  profession  involved 
his  return  to  Virginia,  now  made  doubly  dear  to  him 
in  that,  in  1863,  he  had  espoused  Miss  Parke  W.  Cham- 
berlayne,  of  Richmond,  daughter  of  Dr.  Lewis  Cham- 
berlayne,  who  represented  in  her  own  person  at  least 
two  of  the  noble  lines  of  Normans  whose  shields  are 
suspended  in  Battle  Abbey — the  lines  of  Chamber- 
layne  and  of  D'Aubigny  (Dabney) — illustrious  English 
and  Virginian  lineages.  Let  the  laurel  of  honor  to 
this  lady  of  love  and  grace  be  deferred  to  a  later  page, 
while  we  deal  at  present  with  the  fortunes  of  the  lect- 
urer, and  the  turn  that  was  given  to  the  tide  of  his 
life  by  this  new  venture. 

The  profession  was  not  wholly  fresh  to  him,  as  he 
himself  relates.  "Previous  to  the  war  he  had  been 
fairly  successful  with  his  lecture  entitled  'An  Apology 
for  Fools,'  but  in  the  winter  of  1865-6  his  lecture  on 
'Bacon  and  Greens  or  the  Native  Virginian'  fairly 
took  the  City  of  Richmond  by  storm,  and  was  as  great 
a  success  throughout  Virginia  and  Maryland." 

His  next  essay,  "The  Disease  Called  Love,"  is  per- 
haps the  most  popular  of  all  his  lectures,  with  old  and 
young.  In  addition  to  these  was  another  lecture,  en- 
titled "Women-Folks,"  and  one  on  the  "Virginia 
Negro,"  which  was  only  faulty  in  its  depth  of  truth. 

xxv 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

Its  delivery  in  New  York  at  once  drew  the  partisan 
line,  which  renders  fair  judgment  not  only  impossible 
but  undesirable.  Nobody  really  wanted  to  know  the 
actual  state  of  the  case,  and  the  preacher  of  truth  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  discouraged  and  repulsed  by  the 
first  chill  reception  which  he  suffered. 

In  1869,  G.  C.  Walker  was  elected  Governor  of  Vir- 
ginia as  a  liberal  Republican;  and  under  his  admin- 
istration and  that  of  his  successors,  Gen.  James  L. 
Kemper  and  Col.  F.  W.  M.  Holliday,  Hon.  James 
McDonald  served  as  Secretary  of  State.  Faithful  to 
the  tartan  blood  which  he  bore,  and  true  to  the  obliga- 
tions of  old  times;  secure  too  in  the  sense  of  the  emi- 
nent fitness  of  his  friend,  General  McDonald  appointed 
Dr.  Bagby  assistant  secretary,  and  as  such  custodian 
of  the  State  Library.  Never  was  there  loyalty  to  a 
dead  cause  such  as  his  since  the  days  of  the  Scotch 
Jacobites;  his  heart  was  ever  with  the  "Charlie  over 
the  water,"  when  indeed  there  was  no  king  except  in 
his  thought.  And  the  aching  knowledge  that  he  loved 
a  dead  dream  weighed  on  him  always,  and  then  broke 
his  heart;  and  he  left  other  less  consecrated  men  to 
face  the  new  world  of  untried  and  raw  conditions, 
while  to  himself,  as  when  the  "whole  round  table  was 
dissolved,"  was  given  of  God  the  freedom  of  the  black- 
stoled  barge,  and  the  weeping  queens,  and  the  com- 
fort of  green  valleys  and  deep  peace  in  the  Isle  of 
Avillion,  beyond  the  seas. 

Little  remains  to  be  said  of  his  life.  The  fact  of  its 
incessant  activity  is  told  in  the  mere  catalogue  of  the 
papers  to  which  he  contributed  and  the  lectures  he 

xxvi 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

delivered.  One  of  the  very  best  and  brightest  of  his 
creations,  about  this  time,  was  his  satire  entitled 
"What  I  Did  with  my  Fifty  Millions,"  an  evolution, 
wholly  original  withal,  from  the  lamp  of  Alnaschar 
and  the  milkmaid  of  Msoip — or  of  Noah  Webster.  I 
say  satire,  not  ignorant  that  the  word  is  not  adequate 
nor  accurate,  for  it  was  part  of  the  genius  of  our  friend 
that  he  created  a  school  of  style  and  theme  in  letters 
all  his  own,  with  which  the  terminology  of  rhetoric 
has  not  much  to  do. 

Another  very  happy  idyl  was  his  "Reminiscences  of 
Canal  Life,"  in  which  his  loyal  love  of  nature  finds 
an  expression  as  strong  and  yet  simple  as  the  mother 
longing  of  a  lost  child.  In  Goethe's  "Renunciants," 
the  highest  culture  was  imaged  by  the  figure  which 
gazed  with  folded  palms  upon  the  ground.  Such  was 
Bagby's  reverence,  and  such  his  rapt  contemplation  of 
the  garment  of  God,  which  shows,  through  the  drapery 
of  rock  and  rill,  and  cloud  and  storm  and  mountain, 
the  august  proportions  of  the  Eternal.  Happy  was  he, 
after  all  experience  of  doubt  and  darkness,  to  find  at 
last  in  these  vast  folds  of  form  the  evidence  and  expres- 
sion of  a  Father  of  love  and  light,  who  comforts  and 
helps  the  weak-hearted,  and  raises  up  those  who  fall. 
In  the  peace  of  this  faith  he  fell  asleep,  like  Stephen, 
while  "all  that  sat  in  the  council,  looking  steadfastly  at 
him,  saw  his  face  as  it  had  been  the  face  of  an  angel." 

During  this  period  he  composed  and  delivered  sev- 
eral of  his  best  lectures — "The  Old  Virginia  Gentle- 
man" and  "The  Virginia  Negro."  The  latter  was 
intended  for  delivery  North;    but  he  found,  after  a 

xxvii 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

brief  but  sufficient  experience,  that  the  North  thought 
they  knew  more  of  the  negro  than  he  did.  Returning, 
he  wrote  the  most  merry  and  exquisite  of  all  his  crea- 
tions— "Meekinses'  Twinses" — a  fiction  founded  upon 
fact.  Mr.  Meekins  acquired  in  a  week  as  wide  an 
acquaintance  as  Mr.  Addums  in  a  dozen  years;  and 
the  feed  sto'  in  Rocketts  had  as  good  a  title  to  a  place 
in  the  limbus  of  genius  as  the  "Old  Curiosity  Shop" 
or  the  City  Mildendo.  Hereabouts  also  belongs  the 
sketch  which  has  given  him  his  widest  and  most  graven 
fame — the  sketch  of  "Rubenstein  at  the  Piano" — which 
Mr.  Watterson  has  admitted  into  his  compilation  of 
Southern  humor,  and  which  is  found  already  in  many 
"Readers."  I  am  told  it  has  been  translated  into  a 
German  musical  magazine.  It  has  always  reminded 
me,  in  structure — though  the  themes  are  wide  enough 
apart — of  the  "Dream  Fugue"  attached  to  De  Quin- 
cey's  "Vision  of  Sudden  Death." 

After  these  writings,  Dr.  Bagby  made  for  the  State 
newspaper,  then  edited  by  Capt.  John  Hampden 
Chamberlayne  (brother  of  his  wife,  and  one  of  the 
brightest  and  best  of  the  knights  whose  accolade  was 
given  on  the  two  fields  of  battle  and  labor),  a  trip 
through  Virginia,  describing  each  stage  in  letters, 
whose  power  of  paint  and  of  thought  surpassed  any 
production  of  the  kind  in  the  history  of  Virginian 
journalism. 

A  like  series  of  letters,  entitled,  "New  England 
Through  the  Back  Door,"  written  for  the  Baltimore 
Sun,  gave  us  a  Yankee-land  more  gracious,  fresh,  and 
genial  even  than  the  "Hills  of  the  Shatemuc."     Then 

xxviii 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

came  desultory  writing  for  many  papers.  Mr.  A. 
McDonald,  editor  of  the  Lynchburg  News,  was  again 
one  of  his  generous  friends  to  the  last;  the  Philadel- 
phia Weekly  Times  published  one  of  his  papers;  and 
his  last  composition  appeared  in  Harper's  Magazine. 

After  that,  death;  not  all  at  once,  but  by  gradual 
stages,  as  of  a  siege.  He  sought  the  relief  of  the  Heal- 
ing Springs  in  vain,  and  then,  in  August  of  '83,  deso- 
late but  not  despairing,  he  turned  home  to  die. 

The  foregoing  pages  have  been  written  in  vain  if 
they  have  not  conveyed  some  sense  of  the  writer's 
appreciation  of  Dr.  Bagby's  genius  and  moral  great- 
ness. "There  is  no  man  left  in  Virginia  fit  to  lift  the 
lid  of  his  inkstand,"  wrote  Dr.  Lafferty  of  him — a 
true  saying.  "Never  in  Virginia  letters  shall  we  see 
his  like  again,"  wrote  John  Esten  Cooke.  All  pens, 
great  and  small,  sought,  with  the  piety  of  "Old  Mor- 
tality," to  deepen  the  inscription  of  love  and  praise  on 
his  tomb,  and  to  clear  off  the  grass  and  weeds.  The 
most  faithful  and  beautiful  of  the  tributes  paid  to  his 
memory  was  woven  from  the  heart  through  the  pen  of 
his  lifetime  friend,  Gen.  James  McDonald,  who,  true 
to  the  habit  of  his  Highland  blood,  was  the  well-trusted 
comrade  of  thirty  odd  years,  and  one  of  the  executors 
of  his  literary  remains. 

Long  time  as  death  was  known  to  be  approaching, 
its  final  access  was  a  surprise  at  last.  "Death  will 
not  be  fooled,"  he  had  written  in  "Blue  Eyes."  "He 
will  have  his  dues.  Preparation  avails  nothing.  Rem 
tetigit  acu.  Aye,  he  does  touch  sharply,  as  with  a 
poisoned  thorn,  piercing  to  the  core.     When  no  answer, 

xxix 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    BAGBY 

be  it  ever  so  faint  and  feeble,  comes  from  the  lips  that 
have  thanked  us;  when  no  turning  of  the  eye  repays 
in  grateful  light  the  hands  that  smooth  the  sunken 
pillow;  when  all  is  still  there,  and  no  sound  shall  be 
there  forever — forever! — how  burst  the  fountains,  how 
the  waters  are  unsealed,  as  though  never  a  thought  of 
that  hour  of  anguish  had  warned  us  of  its  coming. 

The  Virginia  of  the  future  may  be  grander,  richer, 
and  stronger  than  the  Virginia,  "immaculate  and  im- 
mortal," which  his  love  and  imagination  touched  into 
all  the  lines  and  colors  of  ideal  perfection;  but  it  can- 
not ever  and  forever  be  the  same  Virginia,  the  mother 
and  nurse  in  classic  and  Christian  greatness  of  Wash- 
infftons  and  Lees,  of  Stuarts  and  Rodeses,  and  of  chil- 
dren  humbler  in  birth  and  state,  but  all  as  dutiful  and 
dauntless.  Whatever  there  was  that  was  brightest  and 
sweetest  in  the  older  civilization,  in  what  he  queerly 
called  the  Virginia  of  the  "spring  and  gourd"  period, 
whose  seedy  relics  are  even  as  an  offence  in  the  eyes 
of  the  new  generation;  whatever  is  truest  and  best 
and  bravest  that  survives  among  the  most  potent  fac- 
tors and  kindliest  influences  of  the  Virginia  that  is  yet 
to  be,  will  owe  its  survival  and  its  vitality  to  the  labor 
and  love  of  one  to  whom — more  fitly  than  to  most — we 
may  apply  the  sad  consolation,  "After  life's  fitful  fever 

he  sleeps  well." 

Edward  S.  Gregory. 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN 

HIS  house  was  not  jammed  down  within  two  inches 
and  a  half  of  "  the  main,  plain  road."  Why!  He 
held,  as  his  father  did  before  himT  that  it  was  immodest 
to  expose  even  his  house  to  the  public  gaze.  Perhaps 
he  had  that  lack  of  curiosity  which,  the  newspaper 
men  tell  us,  is  characteristic  of  the  savage — most  of 
us,  you  know,  are  descended  from  Pocahontas — and, 
at  all  events,  it  would  never  do  to  have  his  head-quar- 
ters on  the  very  edge  of  a  plantation  of  one  thousand 
or  two  thousand  acres. 

What  was  there  to  see  on  the  main,  plain  road? 
Nothing.  Morning  and  evening  the  boys  dashed  by 
on  their  colts,  hurrying  to  or  from  the  academy,  so 
called.  On  Sundays,  carry-alls,  buggies,  and  wagons, 
filled  with  women-folk  and  children,  in  split-bottom 
chairs,  wended  their  way  to  Mount  Zion,  a  mile  or 
two  further  on  in  the  woods.  Twice  a  week  the  stage 
rattled  along,  nobody  inside,  a  negro  in  the  boot,  the 
driver  and  the  negro-trader,  both  drunk,  on  top. 
Once  a  month  the  lawyers,  in  their  stick-gigs  or  "sin- 
gle-chairs," and  the  farmers  on  their  plantation  mares, 
chatting  and  spitting  amicably,  with  switches  poised 
in  up-and-downy  elbows,  jogged  on  to  court.     And 

1 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

that  was  all  that  was  to  be  seen  on  the  main,  plain 
road,  except  the  doctor  and  the  deputy-sheriff,  with 
their  leggings  and  saddle-bags. 

Tramps  there  were  none,  unless  you  call  the  county 
idiot,  who  stalked  barefoot  through  the  winter  snow, 
fanning  himself  industriously  the  while  with  a  turkey- 
wing  fan,  a  tramp.  Once  a  year  the  pedler,  with 
his  pack,  or  the  plausible  oil-cloth  table-cloth  man, 
put  in  an  appearance;  and  that  was  literally  all. 
Why,  even  the  hares  played  in  the  middle  of  the  lone- 
some road!  And  yet  there  was  a  life  and  animation 
along  the  county  roads,  especially  about  the  country 
taverns,  in  the  good  old  days  (they  were  good)  which 
we  who  remember  them  sadly  miss  in  these  times  of 
rapid  railroad  transit. 

A  stranger  would  never  dream  that  the  narrow 
turning  out  of  the  main  road,  scarcely  marked  by  a 
rut,  led  to  a  habitation  better  than  a  charcoal-burner's 
shed.  But  the  drivers  of  the  high-swung,  bug-back 
family  carriages  of  the  period  knew  that  turning 
"mighty  well."  So  did  many  gentlemen,  old  and 
young,  in  all  parts  of  the  commonwealth.  "Oak- 
lands,"  "Bellefield,"  "Mount  Airy,"  whatever  it  might 
be  named,  was  the  half-way  house  to  "Cousin  Tom's," 
"Uncle  Randolph's,"  or  "grandpa's,"  twenty  or 
thirty  miles  farther  on.  Also  it  was  a  convenient  place 
to  spend  the  night  and  mend  the  high-swung  bug-back 
from  Alpha  to  Omega  when  on  your  way  to  the  White 
Sulphur,  Richmond,  or  anywhere.  Truth  to  tell, 
there  was  no  getting  around  it;  it  drew  you  like  a 
magnet. 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

And  whenever  the  road  was  adorned  by  a  white- 
haired,  florid-faced  gentleman  astride  a  blooded  horse, 
with  his  body-servant  in  charge  of  his  portmanteau 
following  at  respectful  distance  behind,*  that  party, 
you  may  be  very  sure,  turned  off  the  main,  plain  road 
and  disappeared  in  the  depths  of  the  forest.  Colonel 
Tidewater  had  come  half  the  length  of  the  State  to 
try  a  little  more  of  Judge  Piedmont's  Madeira,  to 
know  what  on  earth  induced  Piedmont  to  influence 
the  governor  in  making  that  appointment,  and  to  in- 
quire if  it  were  possible  that  Piedmont  intended  to 
bring  out  Jimson — of  all  human  beings,  Jimson! — 
for  Congress  ? 

"Disappeared  in  the  depths  of  the  forest?"  Yes. 
And  why?  Because  there  must  be  plenty  of  wood 
where  there  is  no  end  of  negroes,  and  fifteen  or  twenty 
miles  of  worm-fencing  to  keep  in  repair.  So  there 
was  a  forest  on  this  side  and  on  that  of  the  Old  Vir- 
ginia Gentleman's  home;  sometimes  on  all  sides;  and 
the  more  woodland  the  better.  How  is  a  man  to  get 
along  without  clearing  new  ground  every  year?  The 
boys  must  have  some  place  to  hunt  squirrels.  Every- 
body is  obliged  to  have  wild  indigo  to  keep  flies  off 
his  horse's  head  in  summer.  If  you  have  no  timber, 
what  becomes  of  your  hogs  when  you  turn  them  out  ? 
How  about  fuel  ?  Where  is  your  plank  to  come  from, 
and  your  logs  for  new  cabins  and  tobacco  barns  ?  Are 
you  going  to  buy  poles  for  this,  that,  and  the  other  ? 
There's  no  use  talking— negroes  can't  be  healthy  with- 
out wood,  nor  enjoy  life  without  pine-knots  when  they 
go  fishing  at  night. 

3 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

Pleasant  it  was  to  trot  through  these  forests  on  a 
hot  summer  day,  or  any  other  day,  knowing  what 
was  to  come  at  your  journey's  end.  Pleasant,  too, 
to  bowl  along  under  the  arching  boughs,  albeit  the 
ruts  were  terrible  in  places,  and  there  were  two  or 
three  immemorial  holes,  made  by  the  butts  of  saw- 
logs  (you  could  swear  that  the  great  mark  in  the 
centre  of  the  road  was  the  tail-trace  of  an  Iguanodon, 
or  some  other  Greek  beast  of  prehistoric  times) — I 
two  or  three  old  holes,  that  made  every  vehicle,  but 
chiefly  the  bug-back  carriage,  lurch  and  careen  worse 
than  a  ship  in  a  heavy  sea. 

But  these  were  useful  holes.  They  educated  the 
young  negro  driver,  and  compelled  the  old  one  to 
keep  his  wrinkled,  mealy  hand  in.  They  toned,  or 
rather  tuned  up,  the  nerves  of  the  young  ladies,  and 
gave  them  excuse  for  uttering  the  prettiest  shrieks; 
whereat  the  long-legged  cousin,  leaning  to  the  left 
at  an  angle  of  ninety  degrees,  with  his  abominable 
red  head  forever  inside  the  carriage  window,  would 
display  his  horsemanship  in  the  most  nimble,  over- 
affectionate,  and  unpleasing  manner — unpleasing  to 
the  young  gentleman  from  the  city,  who  was  not  a 
cousin,  did  not  want  to  be  a  cousin,  wasn't  a  bit  proud 
of  riding,  but  had  "some  sense  of  decency,  and  really 
a  very  high  regard  for  the  sensibilities  of  the  most 
refined  ladies  in  the  whole  State  of  Virginia,  sir!" 
Many  were  the  short  but  fervent  prayers  ejaculated 
by  the  old  ladies  in  consequence  of  these  same  holes, 
which  came  to  be  provocatives  of  late  piety,  and  on 
that  account   were   never   molested;    and   they   were 

4 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

prized  beyond  measure  by  the  freckle-face  ten-year- 
old  brother,  who,  standing  up  behind  and  hanging 
back  by  the  carriage-straps,  yelled  with  delight  every 
time  the  bug-back  went  "way  down,"  and  wished 
from  the  very  bottom  of  his  horrid  boy's  heart  that 
"the  blamed  old  thing  would  bust  all  to  flinders  and 
plump  the  whole  caboodle  smack  into  the  middle  of 
the  mud  puddle." 

Colonel  Tidewater  declared  that  Piedmont's  forest 
road  was  the  worst  in  the  world,  and  enough  to  bring 
in  jeopardy  soul  as  well  as  body;  to  which  Piedmont 
hotly  replied  that  a  five-mile  stretch  in  August  through 
the  sand  in  Tidewater's  county  was  eternity  in  Hades 
itself. 
y  The  forest  once  passed,  a  scene  not  of  enchant- 
ment, though  contrast  often  made  it  seem  so,  but  of 
exceeding  beauty,  met  the  eye.  Wide,  very  wide  fields 
of  waving  grain,  billowy  seas  of  green  or  gold,  as 
the  season  chanced  to  be,  over  which  the  scudding 
shadows  chased  and  played,  gladdened  the  heart  with 
wealth  far  spread.  Upon  lowlands  level  as  a  floor, 
the  plumed  and  tasselled  corn  stood  tall  and  dense, 
rank  behind  rank  in  military  alignment — a  serried 
army,  lush  and  strong.  The  rich,  dark  soil  of  the 
gently  swelling  knolls  could  scarcely  be  seen  under 
the  broad,  lapping  leaves  of  the  mottled  tobacco. 
The  hills  were  carpeted  with  clover.  Beneath  the 
tree-clumps,  fat  cattle  chewed  the  cud  or  peaceful 
sheep  reposed,  grateful  for  the  shade.  In  the  midst 
of  this  plenty,  half  hidden  in  foliage  over  which  the 
graceful  shafts  of  the  Lombard  poplar  towered,  with 

5 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

its  bounteous  garden  and  its  orchards  heavy  with  fruit 
near  at  hand,  peered  the  old  mansion,  white,  or  dusky 
red  or  mellow  gray  by  the  storm  and  shine  of  years. 

Seen  by  the  tired  horseman,  halting  at  the  wood- 
land's edge,  this  picture,  steeped  in  the  intense,  quiv- 
ering summer  noonlight,  filled  the  soul  with  unspeak- 
able emotions  of  beauty,  tenderness,  peace,  home. 

" — How  calm  could  we  rest 
In  that  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  we  love  best  I " 

Sorrows  and  cares  were  there — where  do  they  not 
penetrate?  but  oh!  dear  God,  one  day  in  these  sweet, 
tranquil  homes  outweighed  a  fevered  lifetime  in  the 
gayest  cities  of  the  globe.  Tell  me  nothing;  I  under- 
value naught  that  man's  heart  delights  in;  I  dearly 
love  operas  and  great  pageants;  but  I  do  know — as 
I  know  nothing  else — that  the  first  years  of  human 
life,  and  the  last,  yea,  if  it  be  possible,  all  the  years, 
should  be  passed  in  the  country.  The  towns  may  do 
for  a  day,  a  week,  a  month  at  most;  but  nature,  mother 
nature,  pure  and  clean,  is  for  all  time;  yes,  for  eternity 
itself.  What  think  you  of  heaven?  Is  it  a  narrow 
street,  packed  full  of  houses,  with  a  theatre  at  one  end 
and  a  beer  saloon  at  the  other ?  Nay!  the  city  of  God 
is  under  the  trees  and  beside  the  living  waters. 

These  homes  of  Virginia  are  ruins  now;  not  like 
the  ivied  walls  and  towers  of  European  lands,  but 
ruins  none  the  less.  The  houses,  indeed,  are  still 
there,  little  changed,  it  may  be,  as  to  the  outside;  but 
the  light,  the  life,  the  charm  are  gone  forever.  "The 
soul  is  fled." 

6 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

About  these  Virginia  homes  there  was  much  that 
was  unlike  the  houses  I  have  seen  in  the  more  popu- 
lous States  of  the  North  and  in  Canada.  A  South- 
erner travelling  through  central  Pennsylvania  and 
western  New  York  to  the  falls  of  Niagara,  and  thence 
down  the  St'.  Lawrence,  is  painfully  impressed  by  the 
scarcity — the  absence,  one  might  say — of  human  be- 
ings around  the  houses  and  in  the  fields.  There  are 
no  children  playing  in  the  cramped-up  yards.  The 
few  laborers  in  the  narrow  fields  make  but  a  pitiful 
show,  even  at  harvest  time.  The  farms  have  a  de- 
serted look,  that  is  most  depressing  to  one  accustomed 
to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  Virginia  country  life.  For 
thirty  miles  below  Quebec  I  watched  the  houses  that 
thickly  line  the  verdant  river  banks,  but  saw  no  human 
being — not  one.  The  men  were  at  work  in  the  vil- 
lages, the  women  were  at  the  wash-tubs  or  in  the  kitch- 
ens; and  as  for  the  children,  I  know  not  where  they 
were. 

vHow  unlike  Virginia  of  the  olden  time!  There, 
people  were  astir,  and  something  was  always  going 
on.  The  young  master,  with  his  troop  of  little  darkies, 
was  everywhere — in  the  yard,  playing  horses;  in 
the  fields,  hunting  larks  or  partridges;  in  the  or- 
chards, hunting  for  birds'  nests;  at  the  barn,  sliding 
down  the  straw  stacks;  in  the  woods,  twisting  or 
smoking  hares  out  of  hollow  trees;  in  the  "branch," 
fishing  or  bathing  (we  call  it  "washing"  in  Virginia); 
in  the  patch,  plugging  half-ripe  watermelons;  or  else- 
where, in  some  fun  or  mischief.  "Young  Mistiss," 
in  her  sun-bonnet,  had  her  retinue  of  sable  attend- 

7 


THE    OLD   VIRGINIA    GENTLEMAN 

ants,  who,  bare-armed  and  bare-footed,  accompanied 
her  in  her  rambles  through  the  garden,  the  open  wood- 
land near  the  house,  and  sometimes  as  far  as  the  big 
gate.  By  the  way,  whenever  you  heard  the  big  gate 
slam,  you  might  know  that  "comp'ny"  was  coming. 
And  comp'ny  was  always  coming — beaux  to  see  the 
grown-up  girls,  neighbors,  friends,  strangers,  kinfolks 
— no  end  of  them.  Then  some  comely  negro  woman, 
with  bright  kerchief  on  her  head,  was  ever  passing  to 
and  fro,  on  business  with  her  mistress;  and  few  days 
passed  that  did  not  witness  the  "drop-shot  gang"  of 
small  Ethiops  sweeping  up  the  fallen  leaves  that  dis- 
figured the  broad  yard. 

Some  one  was  always  coming  or  going.  The  gig, 
the  double  buggy,  the  carry-all,  the  carriage,  were  in 
constant  use.  Horses,  two  to  a  dozen,  were  seldom 
wanting  at  the  rack,  and  the  boy  of  the  family  was  sure 
to  be  on  the  horse-block,  begging  permission  to  "ride 
behind,"  or  to  carry  the  horse  to  the  stable.  Bringing 
in  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  and  carrying  the 
things  back  to  the  kitchen,  kept  three  or  four  servants 
busy  from  dawn  till  long  after  dark.  The  mistress  had 
a  large  provision  store  at  the  smoke-house,  where  there 
was  much  to  do  every  day  except  Sunday.  So,  too, 
with  the  dairy.  From  the  rooms  set  apart  for  weaving 
and  spinning  came  the  tireless  droning  of  wheels  and 
the  clatter  of  looms — wonderful  machines,  that  de- 
lighted the  knots  of  white  and  black  children  gathered 
at  the  open  doorways.  How  gracefully  Aunt  Sooky 
stepped  back  and  forth  with  her  thread,  as  it  kept 
growing  and  lengthening  on  the  spindle!     Why,  I  can 

8 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

smell  the  wool-rools  now,  and  see  the  brooches,  and 
the  shucks  on  which  they  were  wound! 

These  were  the  scenes  and  occupations  that  gave 
life  to  the  house.  In  the  fields,  from  the  time  that  the 
gangs  of  ploughers  (we  never  called  them  ploughmen), 
moving  steadily  en  echelon,  turned  up  the  rich  sod, 
until  the  wheat  was  shocked,  the  corn  laid  by,  the 
tobacco  planted,  suckered,  primed,  topped,  cut,  and 
hung  in  the  golden  sunshine  to  cure,  there  was  some- 
thing perpetually  afoot  to  enliven  the  plantation.  But 
who  shall  tell  of  harvest-time,  when  the  field  fairly 
swarmed  with  cutters,  the  binders,  the  shockers,  the 
gleaners,  all  agog  with  excitement  and  joy?  A  mur- 
rain on  your  modern  reapers  and  mowers!  What  care 
I  if  Cyrus  McCormick  was  born  in  Rockbridge  County  ? 
These  new-fangled  "contraptions"  are  to  the  old  sys- 
tem what  the  little,  dirty,  black  steam-tug  is  to  the 
three-decker,  with  its  cloud  of  snowy  canvas  towering 
to  the  skies — the  grandest  and  most  beautiful  sight  in 
the  world.  I  wouldn't  give  Uncle  Isham's  picked  man, 
"long  Billy  Carter,"  leading  the  field,  with  one  good 
drink  of  whiskey  in  him — I  wouldn't  give  one  swing  of 
his  cradle  and  one  "ketch"  of  his  straw  for  all  the 
mowers  and  reapers  in  creation. 

But  what  was  the  harvest-field  compared  to  thresh- 
ing-time at  the  barn?  Great  goodness  alive!  Do  you 
all  remember  that  huge  cog-wheel  aloft,  and  the  little 
cog-wheels,  that  big  post  that  turned  'round,  the  thick 
shafts — two  horses  to  a  shaft;  eight  or  ten  horses  to  a 
machine — (none  of  your  one-horse,  out-o'-door  con- 
cerns— this  was  under  a  large  shed,  close  to  the  barn), 

9 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

and  how  we  sat  on  those  shafts,  and  how  we  drove 
those  horses,  and  hollered  at  'em,  and  how  the  dust 
flew,  and  what  a  glorious,  glorious  racket,  hubbub, 
and  confusion  there  was  ?     Surely  you  do. 

Then  came  beating-cider  time.  Bless  me!  how  sick 
"us  boys"  used  to  get  from  drinking  sweet  cider  and 
eating  apple  "pommels"!  You  recollect  the  cider- 
press  ?  None  of  your  fish-traps,  cut  in  two,  and  set  on 
end,  with  an  iron  crank,  but  a  good,  honest  beam,  a 
foot  and  a  half  thick,  and  fifteen  to  twenty  feet  long, 
jobbed  into  a  hole  cut  clean  through  a  stout  oak  tree, 
with  a  wooden  trough  holding  half  a  ton  of  rocks,  and 
an  affair  with  holes  and  pegs,  to  regulate  the  prizing. 
Now  that  was  a  press,  a  real  press — not  a  gimcrack. 
Don't  ask  me  about  corn-shuckings.  It  would  take  a 
separate  lecture  to  describe  them;  besides,  you  already 
know  more  about  them  than  I  can  tell  you. 

If  the  house,  the  barn,  the  fields  were  alive,  so  also 
were  the  woods.  There  the  axe  was  ever  plying.  Tim- 
ber to  cut  for  cabins  (the  negroes  increased  so  fast),  for 
tobacco  houses  and  for  fuel,  new  ground  to  clear,  etc., 
etc.  The  crack  of  the  gun  was  heard  continually — the 
boys  were  shooting  squirrels  for  Brunswick  stew — and 
when  the  wild  pigeons  came,  there  was  an  endless  fusil- 
ade.  As  for  sports,  besides  squirrels,  'coons,  and  'pos- 
sums, there  were  partridges,  robins,  larks,  and  even 
kildees  and  bull-bats,  for  shooting;  but  far  above  all 
these,  was  the  fox-hunt.  Ah!  who  can  ever  forget  it? 
When  the  chase  swept  through  the  forest  and  across 
the  hills,  the  hounds  and  the  beagles  in  full,  eager, 
piercing,  passionate  cry,  making  music  for  the  very 

10 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

gods  and  driving  die  huntsmen  stark  mad,  what 
were  staked  and  ridered  fences,  tangled  underwood, 
gullies,  ditches,  banks  that  were  almost  precipices, 
what  was  life,  what  was  death  to  the  young  fellow  just 
out  of  college,  that  glorious  music  ringing  in  his  ears, 
his  horse,  a  thing  all  fire  and  steel,  going  under  him 
like  a  thunderbolt,  and  the  fox  not  five  hundred  yards 
away?  Tell  me  Southern  country  life  was  monoto- 
nous!    Bah! 

Why,  something  or  somebody  was  forever  stirring. 
In  the  dead  of  night,  hours  before  daybreak,  some  old 
negro  was  eternally  getting  up  to  chunk  his  fire,  or  to 
cut  another  stick  or  two.  In  the  dead  of  winter,  the 
wagons  were  busy  hauling  wood,  to  keep  up  the  grand 
old  fires  in  the  big  old  fireplaces.  And  at  the  worst, 
the  boys  could  always  jump  a  hare  out  of  a  briar-patch, 
and  then  such  "hollering,"  such  whistling,  such  whoop- 
ing, such  calling  of  dogs: — "Here,  here,  here!  who-eet! 
whoop!"  as  if  Bedlam  had  broke  loose. 

Of  church-going  on  Sunday,  when  the  girls  kept  the 
carriage  waiting;  of  warrant-tryings,  vendues,  election 
and  general  muster  days,  of  parties  of  all  kinds,  from 
candy-stews  and  "infairs"  up  to  the  regular  country 
balls  at  the  county  seat,  of  fun  at  negro  weddings,  of 
fish-fries,  barbecues,  sailing-parties,  sora  and  duck 
shooting,  rides  and  drives — the  delights  of  Tidewater 
life — of  dinings  in  and  dinings  out,  of  the  bishop's 
visit,  of  company  come  for  all  day  in  addition  to  the 
company  regularly  domiciled  for  the  week,  month,  or 
half-year,  I  need  not  speak  at  length.  Country  life  in 
Virginia  tiresome!     You  are  crazy! 

11 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

The  habitation  of  the  old  Virginia  gentleman — house 
is  too  short  a  word  to  express  it — always  large  enough, 
however  small  it  might  be,  was  sometimes  stately,  like 
the  great  square  house  of   "Rosewell,"  and   others  I 
might  name.     As  a  rule,  to  which,  indeed,  there  were 
many  exceptions,  it  was  neither  planned  nor  built — it 
grew :  and  that  was  its  great  charm.  To  be  sure,  the  main 
structure  or  body  of  it  had  been  put  up  with  an  eye  not 
to  convenience  but  to  elbow-room  and  breathing  space — 
without  which  no  Virginian  can  live.     But  in  course  of 
time,  as  the  children  came  along,  as  the  family  con- 
nections increased,  and  as  the  desire,  the  necessity  in 
fact,  of  keeping  a  free  hotel  grew  upon  him,  the  old 
gentleman  kept  adding  a  wing  here  and  tacking  a  shed 
room  there  until  the  original  building  became  mixed 
up,  and,  as  it  were,  lost  in  the  crowd  of  additions.     In 
cold  weather  the  old  house  was  often  miserably  uncom- 
fortable, but  at  all  other  times  it  was  simply  glorious. 
There  was,  of  course,  a  large  hall  or  passage,  a  parlor 
and  dining-room,  "the  chamber"  proper  for  the  old 
lady  and  for  everybody,  and  a  fine  old-time  staircase 
leading  to  the  guest-chambers,  but  the  rest  of  the  house 
ran    mostly    into    nondescript   apartments,    access    to 
which  was  not  always  easy.     For  the  floors  were  on 
different  levels,  as  they  ought  to  be  in  an  old  country 
house.     Fail  to  step  up  or  down  at  the  proper  time,  and 
you  were  sure  to  bump  your  head  or  bruise  your  shins. 
Then  there  were  dark  closets,  cuddies,  and  big  old 
chests  that  came  mayhap  from  England,  say  nothing  of 
the  garret,  full  of  mystery,  that  stretched  the  whole 
length  of  the  house.     Here  was  romance  for  child- 


10 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

hood — plenty  of  it.  These  irregular  rooms,  two  steps 
up  and  three  down  before  you  got  fairly  into  them, 
teemed  with  poetry;  but  your  modern  houses,  with 
square  rooms  all  on  a  dead  level,  are  prosaic  as  dry- 
goods  boxes. 

A  fine  old  house  it  was  to  play  hide-and-seek  in,  to 
romp  with  the  girls,  to  cut  all  sorts  of  capers  without 
disturbing  the  old  folks.  Then  these  dark  passages, 
these  cuddies  and  closets,  that  big  garret,  never  failed 
to  harbor  some  good-natured  old  hip-shot  fool  of  a 
family  ghost,  who  was  everlastingly  "projicking" 
around  at  night,  after  the  girls  had  quit  their  talk, 
making  the  floors  crack,  the  doors  creak,  and  whisper- 
ing his  nonsense  through  the  keyhole,  as  if  he  could 
scare  you  or  anybody  else!  To  modernize  the  old 
Virginian's  house  would  kill  that  ghost,  and  if  it  be  a 
crime  to  kill  a  live  man,  what  an  enormity  it  must  be 
to  kill  one  who  has  been  dead  a  hundred  years,  who 
never  harmed  a  living  soul,  and  who,  I  suspect,  was 
more  fretted  than  sorry  when  the  young  ones  would 
persist  in  hiding  their  heads  under  the  bedclothes  for 
fear  of  him!  "You  little  geese!  it's  nobody  but  me," 
and  "whish,  whish,  whish,"  he  would  go  on  with  his 
idiotic  whispering. 

The  heavy,  dark  furniture;  the  huge  sideboard;  the 
quaint  solid  chairs;  the  more  common  article,  with 
spraddled  legs,  scooped  seats,  and  stick  backs;  the 
diamond-paned  book-case;  the  long  horse-hair  sofas, 
with  round  tasselled  pillows,  hard  as  logs  of  ebony,  with 
nooks  to  hide  them  in;  the  graceful  candle-stand;  the 
gilt  mirror,  with  its  three  compartments;    the  carved 

13 


THE   OLD  VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

mantel,  so  high  you  could  hardly  reach  the  silver  can- 
dlesticks on  its  narrow  top;  the  bureaux,  with  swinging 
brass  handles;  the  dressing-tables;  the  high-post  bed- 
stead, with  valance  and  tester;   the 

But  stay!  it  suddenly  and  painfully  occurs  to  me — 
there  are  grown-up  men  and  women  actually  here,  in 
this  room,  immortal  beings,  who  never  laid  eyes  on  a 
bed-wrench  and  pin,  and  who  do  not  so  much  as  know 
the  meaning  of  cording  a  bed!  Think  of  it!  Yet  these 
people  live  on.  Ah  me!  the  fashion  of  this  world 
passeth  away! 

The  massive  dinner  table,  never  big  enough  to  hold 
all  the  dishes,  some  of  which  had  to  go  on  the  hearth 
to  be  kept  warm;  the  old-time  silver,  the  heavy  cut 
glassware,  the  glass  pitcher  for  the  thick,  rich  milk — 
how  it  foamed  when  they  "poured  it  high!" — the  Can- 
ton china,  thin  as  thin  biscuit;  the  plainer  blue  dinner 
set,  for  every-day  use,  with  the  big  apples  on  the  little 
trees,  the  blue  islands  in  a  white  sea,  the  man  or  woman 
that  was  always  going  over  that  short  bridge,  but 
stopped  and  stood  provokingly  in  the  middle — how 
they  all  come  back  to  you!  But  I  "lay"  you  have 
forgotten  the  bandboxes.  Think  of  that  again! 
Bandboxes  have  fled  away  from  the  face  of  this  earth, 
but  not  to  heaven;  for  they  were  much  uglier  than  any 
sin  I'm  acquainted  with.  I  recall  the  very  pattern  of 
them — the  red  brick  houses,  with  many  windows,  the 
clumsy  trees,  and  that  odd  something,  more  like  a  pile 
of  rocks  than  an  elephant,  but  spouting  clods  of  water, 
like  an  elephant  who  had  got  drunk  on  mud. 

When  you  were  a  boy,  did  you  sleep  in  a  low-pitched, 

14 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

dormer-windowed  room,  with  two  little  gable  windows 
that  looked  out  upon  a  narrow-necked  chimney,  just 
where  the  neck  ended  and  the  shoulder  began  ?  You 
didn't?  Then  I  pity  you;  you  must  have  had  a 
mighty  poor  sort  of  boyhood.  Why,  I  can  see  the 
moss  growing  on  that  chimney,  can  see  how  very  thick 
the  old  thing  is  at  the  bottom,  and,  by  George!  there  is 
the  identical  old  toad  (frog,  we  call  him)  that  pops 
out  every  night  from  the  slit  in  the  wall  at  the  side  of 
the  chimney.  How  well  he  looks!  hasn't  changed  a 
hair  in  forty  years!  Come!  let's  "ketch"  some  light- 
ning-bugs and  feed  him,  right  now. 

Surely,  you  hav'n't  forgotten  the  rainy  days  at  the 
old  country  house?  How  the  drops  kept  dropping, 
dropping  from  the  eaves,  and  popping,  popping  up 
from  the  little  trough  worn  into  the  earth  below  the 
eaves;  how  draggled  and  miserable  the  rooster  looked, 
as  you  watched  him  from  your  seat  in  the  deep  win- 
dow-sill; and  how  (tired  of  playing  in-doors)  you  won- 
dered if  it  would  never,  never  stop  raining?  How  you 
wandered  from  room  to  room,  all  over  the  house,  up 
stairs  and  down  stairs,  eating  cakes  and  apples,  or 
buttered  bread  and  raspberry  jam;  how  at  last  you 
settled  down  in  the  old  lady's  chamber  and  held  a 
hank  till  your  arms  ached,  and  you  longed  for  bedtime 
to  come  ?  If  you  have  never  known  such  days,  never 
seen  the  reel  the  hanks  were  placed  on,  nor  the  flax- 
wheels  that  clacked  when  the  time  came  to  stop  wind- 
ing, then  you  have  neither  seen  nor  known  anything. 
You  don't  know  how  to  "skin  the  cat,"  or  to  play 
"Ant'ny  over";  you  don't  know  how  to  drop  a  live 

15 


THE    OLD   VIRGINIA    GENTLEMAN 

coal  in  a  little  puddle  of  water,  and  explode  it  with  an 
axe;  you  "don't  know  nothin'  " — you  have  never  been 
a  Virginia  boy. 

Yes,  your  arms  ached,  poor  little  fellow,  pining  for 
out-door  fun;  they  were  sure  to  ache  if  you  held  the 
hank  for  Miss  Mehaly  Sidebottom,  the  poor  lady  who 
had  lived  in  the  family  time  out  o'  mind;  but  if  you 
held  it  for  a  pretty  girl — and  what  Virginia  gentleman's 
house  was  without  one — two — three — half  a  dozen  of 
them? — then  your  arms  didn't  give  out  half  so  soon, 
and  you  didn't  know  what  it  was  to  get  hungry  or 
sleepy.  When  you  grew  older,  a  rainy  day  in  the 
country  was  worth  untold  money,  for  then  you  had 
the  pretty  girl  all  to  yourself  the  livelong  day  in  the 
drawing-room.  What  music  the  rain  made  on  the 
roof  at  night,  and  how  you  wished  the  long  season  in 
May  would  set  in,  raise  all  the  creeks  past  fording, 
wash  away  all  the  bridges,  and  keep  you  there  forever. 

And  such  girls !  They  were  of  a  piece  with  the  dear 
old  house;  they  belonged  to  it  of  right,  and  it  would 
not,  and  it  could  not,  have  been  what  it  was  without 
them.  Finer  women,  physically,  I  may  have  seen, 
with  much  more  bone,  a  deal  more  of  muscle,  and 
redder  cheeks;  but  more  grace,  more  elegance,  more 
refinement,  more  guileless  purity,  were  never  found 
the  whole  world  over,  in  any  age,  not  even  that  of 
the  halcyon.  There  was  about  these  country  girls— 
I  mean  no  disparagement  of  their  city  sisters,  for  all 
Virginia  girls  were  city  girls  in  winter  and  country 
girls  in  summer,  so  happy  was  our  peculiar  social  sys- 
tem—there was  about  these  country  girls  I  know  not 

16 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

what  of  sauce — the  word  is  a  little  too  strong — of 
mischief,  of  spirit,  of  fire,  of  archness,  coquetry,  and 
bright  winsomeness — tendrils  these  of  a  stock  that  was 
strong  and  true  as  heart  could  wish  or  nature  frame; 
for  in  essentials  their  character  was  based  upon  a  con- 
fiding, trusting,  loving,  unselfish  devotion — a  complete, 
immaculate  world  of  womanly  virtue  and  home  piety 
was  theirs,  the  like  of  which,  I  boldly  claim,  was  seldom 
approached,  and  never  excelled,  since  the  Almighty 
made  man  in  his  own  image. 

What  matter  if  it  rained  or  shone,  so  you  spent 
your  time  with  girls  like  these?  And  if  one  of  them 
chanced  to  be  a  cousin — everybody  has  cousins — then 
there  was  no  help  for  you;   literally  none — 

"Did  you  ever  have  a  cousin,  Tom? 
And  did  that  cousin  sing? 
Sisters  we've  had  by  the  dozen,  Tom — 
But  a  cousin's  a  different  thing!" 

I  believe  you.  A  cousin,  a  real  female  cousin,  I 
take  to  be  the  invention  of  the  de'il  himself — his  pet 
bit  of  ingenuity.  She  makes  you  all  but  crazy  to 
marry  her,  then  she  won't  marry  you,  never  had  the 
remotest  idea  of  marrying  you  (says  so  anyhow),  and 
you  know  you  oughtn't  to  marry  her  even  if  she  were 
willing;  and — where  are  you?  There's  not  a  man  of 
us  who  has  not  been  robbed  of  his  senses  by  one  or 
more  of  these  beautiful  witches,  not  one  of  us  who  does 
not  recall  the  time  when 

"Half  dying  with  love, 
We  ate  up  her  glove 
And  drank  our  champagne  from  her  shoe!" 
17 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

And  a  little  "teenchy"  bit  of  a  shoe  it  was,  too — 
white  kid.  She  never  knew  who  stole  it,  and  you  have 
had  it  hid  away  these  twenty  years,  although  you  are 
married.     I  know  you,  sir. 

Are  there  any  such  girls  nowadays,  I  wonder?  I 
trust  so,  indeed.  The  archness  and  coquetry  in  the 
girls  of  whom  I  have  been  speaking  were  but  charming 
arabesques  upon  Damascus  steel,  metal  of  proof,  whose 
mortal  sharpness,  bitter  and  keen,  he  was  sure  to  feel, 
and  quickly  too,  who  dared  to  come  too  near.  But 
since  the  war,  I  am  told,  a  change  has  come  to  pass, 
and  approaches,  impossible  in  purer  days,  are  allowed. 
Is  it  so?  Then  are  we  lost  indeed!  It  cannot  be  so; 
but  if  it  be  so  in  part  only,  who  is  to  blame  ?  Are  not 
you,  young  gentleman?  Hold  off,  sir;  stand  back,  I 
say;  lay  not  so  much  as  a  finger-tip  lightly  upon  her, 
for  she  is  sacred.  If  she  be  not  yours,  she  is  your 
brother's;  and  if  your  own,  will  you  harm  ever  so  lit- 
tle her  whom  you  intend  to  make  your  wife?  Oh! 
wait,  do  but  wait.  In  the  hallowed  stillness  of  your 
bridal  eve,  ere  the  guests  have  all  assembled,  lift  up  to 
yours  the  fair  pale  face,  love's  perfect  image,  and  you 
shall  see  that  vision  to  which  God  our  Father  vouch- 
safes no  equal  this  side  the  jasper  throne — you  shall 
see  the  ineffable  eyes  of  innocence  entrusting  to  you, 
unworthy,  oh!  so  unworthy,  her  destiny  through  time 
and  eternity.  Inhale  the  perfume  of  her  breath  and 
hair,  that  puts  the  violets  of  the  wood  to  shame;  press 
your  first  kiss  (for  now  she  is  all  your  own),  your  first 
kiss  upon  the  trembling  petals  of  her  lips,  and  you 
shall  hear,  with  ears  you  knew  not  that  you  had,  the 

18 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

silver  chiming  of  your  wedding  bells  far,  far  up  in 
heaven. 

As  were  the  girls,  so  was  their  mother;  only  of  a 
type,  if  possible,  still  higher;  for  I  can  but  think  that, 
since  the  Colonial  and  Revolutionary  days,  each  gen- 
eration has  shown  a  slight  falling  away  from  those 
grand  models  of  men  and  women  who  really  existed  in 
Virginia,  but  whom  we  have  come  to  look  upon  almost 
as  myths.  That  the  mother  was  lovelier  or  more  lov- 
able than  her  daughters,  I  will  not  say.  That  she  was 
purer,  tenderer,  truer,  sweeter,  I  will  not  say;  but 
certainly  there  was  about  her  a  dignity,  a  repose,  an 
impressiveness — at  all  events,  a  something  that  one 
missed  in  the  beautiful  maidens  who  grew  up  around 
her.  Perhaps  it  was  the  effect  of  age.  I  know  not; 
but  I  do  know  that,  in  some  respects,  her  daughters 
were  not  quite  equal  to  her. 

Words  fail  to  tell  what  the  Virginia  lady  of  the  best 
type  was.  During  the  first  decade  of  her  married 
life,  a  part  of  each  recurring  winter  was  passed  at  the 
State  capital  or  in  Washington,  and  a  part  of  each 
summer  at  the  springs;  she  was  at  that  time  no  stranger 
to  the  great  cities  and  seasides  of  the  North;  and,  in 
some  instances  (though  these,  to  speak  the  truth,  were 
very  rare),  she  had  travelled  abroad,  and  knew  the 
delights  of  European  capitals.  But  now,  for  many 
years,  her  whole  life  had  been  spent  at  home.  She 
was  much  too  busy  to  leave  it.  The  bodily  and  spirit- 
ual welfare  of  too  many  human  beings  depended  upon 
her  gentle  presence,  her  beneficent  guidance,  to  per- 
mit more  than  the  briefest  visit,  once  a  year,  to  her 

19 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA    GENTLEMAN 

aged  parents.  Retaining  the  grace,  and,  to  some  ex- 
tent, the  ease  of  manner,  characteristic  of  her  class  and 
peculiarly  her  own  in  early  womanhood,  whilst  moving 
in  the  brilliant  throngs  of  cities  and  watering-places, 
and  accustomed,  as  she  had  ever  been,  to  receive  and 
entertain  the  best  people  of  her  own  and  other  States, 
there  had  nevertheless  crept  over  her,  in  consequence, 
no  doubt,  of  her  long  seclusion,  an  almost  girlish  shy- 
ness, a  maidenly  timidity,  a  little  uncertainty  as  to  her- 
self, an  absence  of  readiness  and  aplomb,  which  were  in- 
expressibly beautiful.  The  ways  of  the  great  world  had 
ceased,  long  ago,  to  be  her  ways.  She  lived  in  a  little 
world  of  her  own.  She  cared  not  to  keep  pace  with 
the  fast-changing  fashions,  which,  to  her  pure  mind, 
were  not  always  for  the  better.  Her  manner  was  not, 
in  the  usual  sense,  high-bred;  for  hers  was  the  highest 
breeding,  and  she  had  no  manner.  But  her  welcome 
as  you  entered  her  door,  and  her  greeting,  meet  her 
when  you  might,  on  the  endless  round  of  her  duties, 
in-doors  or  out,  was  as  simple  and  genial  as  sunshine, 
and  as  sweet  as  spring  water.  Full  well  she  knew  the 
seriousness  of  life.  Over  and  over  the  cares  and  re- 
sponsibilities of  her  station,  as  the  mother  of  so  many 
children,  the  mistress  of  so  many  servants,  and  the 
hostess  of  so  many  guests,  had  utterly  overwhelmed 
her.  Again  and  again  had  she  been  willing,  nay  glad 
—were  it  God's  pleasure— to  lay  down  the  burthen 
that  was  too  heavy  for  poor  human  nature  to  bear. 
To  her  own  sorrows  she  added  the  sorrows  of  her 
friends,  her  neighbors,  her  dependents.  Into  how 
many  negro  cabins  had  she  not  gone,  when  the  night 

20 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

was  far  spent  and  the  lamp  of  life  flickered  low  in  the 
breast  of  the  dying  slave!     How  often  she  ministered 
to   him   with   her  own   hands!     Thin   hands,   wasted 
with  overwork — for  she  disdained  no  labor,  manual 
or  mental — I  can  see  them  now!     Nay,  had  she  not 
knelt  by  his  lowly  bed  and  poured  out  her  heart  to 
God  as  his  soul  winged  its  flight,  and  closed  his  glazed 
and  staring  eyes  as   the  day  was  dawning?  yet  the 
morning  meal  found  her  at  her  accustomed  seat,  tran- 
quil and  helpful,  and  no  one  but  her  husband  the  wiser 
for  her  night's  ministrations.     What  poor  woman  for 
miles  around  knew  not  the  brightness  of  her  coming? 
Some  of  her  own  children  had  been  taken  from  her — 
that  deep  anguish!  she  knew  it  all— and  the  children 
of  her  neighbors,  even  the  humblest,  had  died  in  her 
lap;  herself  had  washed  and  shrouded  them.     To  feed, 
to  clothe,  to  teach,  to  guide,  to  comfort,  to  nurse,  to 
provide  for  and  to  watch  over  a  great  household  and 
keep  its  complex  machinery  in  noiseless  order — these 
were  the  woman's  rights  which  she  asserted,  and  there 
was  no  one  to  dispute;   this  was  her  mission,  and  none 
ever  dared  to  question  it.     Mother,  mistress,  instructor, 
counsellor,  benefactress,  friend,  angel  of  the  sick-room ! 
if  ever  I  am  tempted  to  call  down  the  fire  of  divine 
wrath,  it  is  upon  the  head  of  those  (there  have  been 
such,  incredible  as  it  may  seem),  who  have  wilfully 
and  persistently  misrepresented  this  best  and  purest  of 
God's  creatures  as  the  luxurious,  idle,  cruel,  and  tyran- 
nical favorite  of  seme  Eastern  harem.     The  arch-fiend 
himself  could  not  have  originated  a  slander  more  gross, 
more  infinitely  and  detestably  foul. 

21 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

My  rambles  before  the  war  made  me  the  guest  of 
Virginians  of  all  grades.  Brightest  by  far  of  the  mem- 
ories of  those  days,  that  seem  to  have  been  passed  in 
some  other  planet,  is  that  of  the  Virginia  mother,  as  I 
have  so  often  seen  her,  in  the  midst  of  her  tall  sons 
and  blooming  daughters.  Her  delicacy,  tenderness, 
freshness,  gentleness;  the  absolute  purity  of  her  life 
and  thought,  typified  in  the  spotless  neatness  of  her 
apparel  and  her  every  surrounding,  it  is  quite  impossi- 
ble to  convey.  Withal,  there  was  about  her  a  naivete 
mingled  with  sadness,  that  gave  her  a  surpassing 
charm.  Her  light  blush,  easily  called  up  when  her 
children  rallied  her,  as  they  habitually  would,  about 
her  old-fashioned  ways  and  her  ignorance  of  the  world, 
was  something  never  to  be  forgotten.  Sunlight,  flush- 
ing with  faint  rose-tints  the  driven  snow,  could  scarcely 
more  excite  the  rapture  of  admiration.  Her  pride  in 
her  sons,  her  delight  in  her  daughters,  her  lowliness 
and  her  humility — for  she  was  least  among  them  all, 
and  they  were  as  yet  too  young  and  full  of  bounding 
life  to  revere  and  worship  her  as  she  deserved — who 
shall,  who  can  fitly  tell  of  these  things? 

When  I  think  of  the  days  that  will  come  no  more,  I 
sometimes  pass  my  hand  quickly  across  my  eyes,  as 
one  who  wishes  to  brush  away  a  vision,  not  because  it 
is  unpleasing,  but  simply  became  it  is  unreal.  And 
in  the  solitude  of  my  room  I  sometimes  ask  myself 
aloud,  "Was  this  actually  so?  Did  I  live  in  those 
days?  Isn't  it  a  dream?  Did  I  ever  know  such 
women?  Is  there  not  some  mirage,  some  rosy  but 
false  light,  thrown  upon  the  picture  as  it  appears  in 

22 


THE   OLD  VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

memory?     It  is  very,  very  beautiful;    but  is  it  not  of 
the  fancy  merely?" 

No!  blessed  be  the  Giver  of  every  good  and  perfect 
gift,  the  picture  is  not  imaginary.  It  is  real.  These 
women  lived.  The  most  of  us  who  are  bearded  men 
have  seen  them  and  talked  with  them;  and  some  of 
you  (alas!  I  am  not  of  your  number)  remember  with 
trembling  and  with  tears  that,  long,  long  years  ago, 
by  the  embers  and  low  flames  fluttering  in  the  nursery 
fireplace,  you  knelt  at  the  feet  of  such  a  woman,  and 
while  her  soft  hand  rested  on  your  head,  said  the  little 
prayer  her  pure  lips  had  taught  you  to  pray.  You 
called  her  mother.     She  was  your  mother. 

How  did  these  Virginia  mothers  and  housekeepers 
manage  to  put  things  in  order  and  keep  them  so  ex- 
quisitely clean?  That  was  always  a  mystery  to  me. 
"Servants,"  you  say.  Oh!  yes!  servants  of  course; 
but  when  servants  have  so  many  things  to  do,  how  is 
it  that  you  never  see  them  doing  any  one  of  them? 
If  you  lay  awake  all  night  long,  you  would,  in  some 
vague  daybreak  hour,  hear  a  peculiar  humping,  rum- 
bling noise,  never  h^ard  north  of  the  Susquehanna, 
which  was  occasioned,  I  am  told,  by  a  performance 
called  "dry-rubbing  '  A  graybeard  Virginia  boy  told 
me  only  yesterday  uiat  riding  on  the  scrubbing-brush, 
by  squatting  astrac  Jle  the  brush  and  holding  on  to  the 
long  handle,  was  t  le  best  sort  of  fun.  But  by  the  time 
you  got  downstairs,  nobody  was  to  be  seen,  the  floors 
were  so  slick  that  your  neck  was  in  danger,  the  silver 
candlestick,  snuf'ers,  and  tray  were  spotless,  so  were 
the  big  brass  anuirons,  so  was  the  brass  fender,  and  as 

23 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

for  the  door-knobs,  why,  you  could  see  your  face  in 
them  any  time;  and  a  comical,  big-mouthed,  narrow- 
foreheaded  face  it  was,  as  every  Virginia  boy  knows. 
Who  did  it?  When?  how?  what  for?  I  don't  like 
things  so  terrifically  clean — do  you  ?  One  morning  I 
did  catch  a  girl  coming  out  of  the  parlor  with  a  bucket 
in  her  hand.  She  trembled  like  a  guilty  thing  sur- 
prised, turned  a  little  yellow,  then  blushed  a  reddish 
black,  "curche'd,"  and  said: 

"I  jes'  bin  clayin'  de  h'ath,  sir." 

What  pleasure,  what  joy  indeed,  it  was  to  visit  a 
house  over  which  one  of  these  dear  Virginia  ladies 
presided !  But  what  time  of  year  was  the  best  for  your 
visit?  Mortal  man  could  never  tell.  There  was  the 
summer  time,  when  you  died  daily  of  a  surfeit  of  peaches 
and  cream,  and  watermelons,  tingling  cold  from  the 
ice-house,  all  on  top  of  your  regular  dinner;  and  some- 
how you  never  felt  well  enough  to  go  bat-shooting  with 
the  boys  about  sundown,  but  did  gather  up  strength 
enough  to  walk  out  with  one  of  the  girls,  "it  didn't 
matter  which  one,"  you  said,  and  told  a  whopper 
when  you  said  so.  When  night  came,  and  the  girls 
with  their  beaux  were  in  the  parlo  •,  and  the  old  gentle- 
man was  talking  politics  with  his  friends  in  the  front 
porch,  your  energy  increased.  Without  a  thought  of 
fatigue,  you  strolled  under  the  manorial  oaks — alone? 
no,  not  altogether  alone.  The  inces  ant  chatter  of  the 
katydids,  and  the  active  vocal  correspondence  of  the 
frogs  in  the  mill-pond  and  the  creeks  made  it  certain 
that  whatever  you  had  to  say  would  be  heard  only 
by — yourself?    Yes,  oh!  yes.     The  d -owsy  tinkle  of 

24 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

the  cow-bells  in  the  "cup-pen"  smote  softly  on  your 
ear.  The  switching  of  the  whippoorwill  mingled  with 
the  ululations  of  the  half-scared  negro,  trudging  home- 
ward through  the  distant  woods.  Music  from  the  open 
windows  of  the  parlor,  clipped  in  the  perfume  of  flowers 
freshened  by  the  night  dews,  lifted  your  soul  into  Elys- 
ium. But  the  voice  of  the  lady  in  white,  whose  little 
hand  rested  on  your  arm,  was  sweeter  than  music  and 
flowers  combined. 

(If,  in  the  beautiful  vista  of  life  that  opened  then 
before  you,  a  panorama — not  seen  distinctly,  but  ap- 
prehended by  some  fine  lover-sense,  unknown  to  ordi- 
nary mortals — if  in  that  entrancing  vista,  a  panorama 
of  a  possible  "plantation  and  negroes,"  superadded  to 
the  young  lady  in  the  simple  lawn  dress,  presented  itself 
to  you,  ah!  how  could  you  help  it?  and  what  poor,  but 
handsome  and  aspiring,  young  man  will  blame  you  ?  I 
certainly  will  not.) 

But  it  was  too  sweet  to  last  You  didn't  want  to  go 
in,  not  you,  if  it  was  midnight;  but  she  made  you  go. 
Then  came  the  unrepose  in  the  lavendered  bed,  with 
the  night-wind  murmuring  through  the  locusts  and 
aspens,  and  the  starlight  spilling  down  from  heaven — 
where  you  cared  not  to  go,  yet  awhile.  No  rest — for 
brain  and  heart  were  on  fire  with  hopes  and  fears.  No 
rest.  The  mocking-bird  in  the  thorn-bush,  for  all  his 
melody,  was  a  nuisance;  and  that  screech-owl  in  the 
old  catalpa — how  you  would  have  liked  to  cut  his 
throat,  slowly,  ev;r  so  slowly,  with  a  dull  case-knife! 
At  last,  consciousness  melted  away  into  the  paradise  of 
dreams,  and  you  awoke  in  the  morning  to  find  your 

25 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

sweetheart  fairer  than  the  fleecy  clouds  and  sweeter 
than  the  dew-washed  roses. 

On  some  accounts,  the  winter  was  even  better  than 
the  summer  for  a  visit  to  the  old  Virginia  gentleman's 
home.  There  were  more  sports,  Christmas  parties, 
sleigh-rides,  etc.,  and  a  different  order  of  eatables  and 
drinkables.  But  you  devoured  your  lady-love,  oppo- 
site whom  the  cunning  waiter  was  sure  to  seat  you. 
She  was  fatter,  plumper,  rosier,  arm-fuller,  warmer, 
impudenter,  more  mischievous,  harder  to  catch,  mar- 
riageabler,  exceedingly  much  more  to  be  desired  in 
marriage,  and  everything  more  delicious  than  before. 
After  breakfast,  and  such  a  breakfast,  a  ride  on  horse- 
back was  demanded  by  all  the  laws  of  digestion.  Com- 
ing back  at  a  flying  gallop,  she  was  apt  to  look  some- 
thing very  like  "yes,"  and  put  whip  to  her  steed. 
Then  came  a  race.  Fox-hunting  was  a  fool  to  it! 
Rather  than  fail  in  finding  out  the  full  meaning  of  that 
look,  you  would  have  killed  the  last  one  of  her  father's 
blooded  horses.  And  when  you  caught  up,  oh!  misery 
— the  slippery  minx  had  no  affirmative  for  you,  and  you 
were  "Mr.  Impudence"  for  your  pains.  During  the 
dance  at  night,  she  would  give  you,  once  an  hour,  a 
glance  that  was  worth  a  king's  xansom,  and  for  the 
ensuing  fifty-nine  minutes  and  fifiv-nine  seconds  was 
anybody's,  everybody  else's  but  yours.  When  the 
dancing  was  all  over,  and  you  had  1  ngered  at  the  foot 
of  the  staircase  until  you  had  well-nigh  disgraced  your- 
self, she  would  bid  you  good-night  in  tones  that  melted 
the  very  soul  within  you,  dazzle  you  with  her  parting 
smile,  and  with  the  least  little  bit  of  i  pressure  of  her 

26 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

tiny  hand— "just  enough  to  last  you  till  morning,"— 
dart  upstairs  like  a  meteor. 

The  house  was  so  full  of  company  that  you  were  sent 
out  to  the  "office"  in  the  yard,  to  stay  with  the  boys. 
Time  was  when  you  asked  nothing  better;  now,  it 
was  pure  torture.  The  gabble  of  brothers  and  cousins 
about  horses,  dogs,  guns,  duels,  "old  Soc,"  "old 
Gess,"  "Scheie,"  "Math,"  getting  "pitched,"  and  the 
deuce  knows  what,  disgusted  and  maddened  you. 
You  wanted  to  be  alone  with  your  celestial  thoughts, 
and  they  wanted  you  to  play  euchre  and  drink  whiskey- 
punch  or  apple-toddy.  Idiots!  You  consigned  them 
all,  without  scruple,  to  the  bottom  of  the  pit  that  has 
no  bottom. 

Ah  me!  those  were  days  of  the  gods.  Ask  any  man 
here  of  five  and  forty  or  fifty  if  they  were  not.  Are 
there  any  such  country  homes  left  in  Virginia?  Is 
there  even  one  such  home?  And  do  they  have  such 
delights  in  them  now?  I  know  not — I  know  not.  I 
have  outlived  my  time. 

Carried  away  by  recollections  of  the  sweethearts  of 
other  days,  the  most  of  whom  are  grandmothers  now,  I 
seem  to  have  forgotten  the  old  Virginia  gentleman 
himself.  But  I  have  not.  It  was  necessary  to  give 
his  surroundings.  The  large  estate,  the  commodious 
house,  the  gentle  wife,  the  sons  and  daughters,  are  but 
accessories  of  the  principal  figure.  How  shall  I  draw 
that  true  to  nature?  The  popular  idea  of  the  old  Vir- 
ginia gentleman,  even  in  our  own  minds,  is  about  as 
correct  as  that  of  the  typical  Yankee,  in  bell-crown  hat, 

27 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

swallow-tail  coat,  striped  breeches,  and  short  waistcoat. 
"Porte  Crayon"  has  a  picture  of  the  old  gentleman  in 
"Virginia  Illustrated";  Kennedy,  in  the  "Swallow 
Barn,"  gives  us  another;  and  Elder  in  an  admirable 
unfinished  sketch  of  a  country  court-day  in  Virginia, 
furnishes  a  third.  All  agree  in  representing  him  as  a 
stout,  bluff,  hearty,  jovial  old  fellow,  fond  of  juleps, 
horse-races,  and  "a  little  game  of  draw."  This,  to  be 
sure,  is  one  kind  of  Virginian,  but  not  the  typical  kind, 
and  by  no  means  my  ideal  of  an  old  Virginia  gentleman. 
The  truth  is,  there  are  several  types,  of  which  I  distin- 
guish five  as  more  clearly  marked  than  any  others,  viz.: 

I.  The  one  above  given  by  Elder,  Strother,  and 
Kennedy. 

II.  A  small,  thin,  sharp-featured,  black-eyed, 
swarthy  man;  passionate,  fiery  indeed  in  temper;  keen 
for  any  sort  of  discussion;  profane,  but  swearing  natu- 
rally and  at  times  delightfully;  hot,  quick,  bitter  as 
death;  magnanimous,  but  utterly  implacable — a  red 
Indian  imprisoned  in  the  fragile  body  of  a  consumptive 
old  Roman. 

III.  A  broad,  solid,  large-headed,  large-faced, 
heavy,  actually  fat,  deeply  pious  old  gentleman — beam- 
ing with  benevolence,  the  soul  (and  body,  too!)  of  hos- 
pitality and  kindness,  simple  as  a  child,  absent-minded, 
unpractical  to  the  last  degree,  and  yet  prosperous] 
because  God  just  loves  him — a  dear,  big,  old  father  to 
everybody. 

IV.  A  refined,  scrupulously  neat,  carefully  dressed, 
high-toned,  proud,  exclusive  man;  courteous,  but  some- 
what cold;    a  judge  of  rare  old  wines  and  a  lover  of 

2S 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

them;  a  scholarly  but  dry  and  ungenial  intellect; 
regardful  of  manners,  a  stickler  for  forms  and  social 
distinctions;  fond  of  ancient  customs,  observances,  and 
fashions,  even  to  the  cut  of  his  clothes,  which  he  would 
fain  have  made  colonial;  an  aristocrat,  born  and  bred, 
and  never  quite  unconscious  of  the  fact;  a  high  type, 
one  that  commanded  more  of  respect  than  love,  but  not, 
I  think,  the  highest  type. 

V.  Last  and  best  comes  the  Virginian,  less  fiery 
than  the  old  Roman-Indian,  but  of  spirit  quite  as  high; 
as  courteous  every  whit  asQbe  aristocrat}  just  named, 
but  not  so  mannered;  in  culture  not  inferior  to  either, 
and  adding  thereto/a^gentieness  almost  feminine,  and 
a  humility  born  only,  as  my  experience  teaches,  of  a 
devout  Christian  spirit;  a  lover  of  children  with  his 
whole  heart,  and  idolized  by  them  in  turn;  knightly  in 
his  regard  for  womankind,  in  the  lowest  fully  as  much 
as  in  the  highest  sphere; — in  a  word,  as  nearly  perfect 
as  human  infirmity  permits  man  to  be^  An  old  gentle- 
man of  Maryland,  himself  a  fine  specimen  of  an  ad- 
mirable class,  told  me  that  what  impressed  him  most  in 
the  Virginia  gentlemen  whom  he  met  at  the  Springs 
and  elsewhere,  but  more  especially  those  who  lived 
nearest  him  in  the  Northern  Neck,  was  a  humility 
amounting  almost  to  forgetfulness  of  self,  and  yet  joined 
to  so  perfect  a  knowledge  of  human  worth  that  they 
could  not  and  would  not  for  an  instant  brook  in  others 
any  disregard  of  those  claims  of  simple  manhood  which 
instinct  alone,  and  quite  apart  from  education  or  social 
advantage,  suffices  thoroughly  to  teach. 

In  our  college  presidents  and  professors,  our  judges, 

29 


THE   OLD  VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

senators,  and  other  dignitaries,  this  lack  of  all  pre- 
tence, and  even  of  self-assertion,  amounted,  I  have 
sometimes  thought,  to  a  fault.  But  better  this,  far 
better,  when  back  of  it  lay  all  proper  pride  and  personal 
courage,  than  the  starchy  vanity  and  conceit  of  priggish 
dons  in  other  quarters  of  the  globe. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  the  last  of  the  five  classes  just 
given  is  the  typical  Virginian.  He,  indeed,  must  be 
found  by  combining  the  separate  types;  but  we  have 
all  seen  specimens  of  this  best  class — few  counties  but 
contained  one  or  more  of  them — and  we  do  know  that 
higher,  nobler  men  never  lived  on  earth. 

No;  to  me  the  strangest  possible  of  mistakes  is  to 
reckon  the  broad-waisted,  jovial,  rollicking  English 
squire  as  the  true  Virginia  type.  The  richest  and  most 
varied  growths  do  not  come  out  of  cold  white  clay,  but 
out  of  dark  warm  mould;  and  in  the  depths  of  the 
Virginia  character  there  was  ever  a  stratum  of  grave 
thought  and  feeling  that  not  seldom  sank  into  sadness 
and  even  gloom. 

How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Whether  he  lived  on 
the  banks  of  the  great  tidal  rivers,  and  from  his  porches 
and  windows  was  wont  to  watch  the  trees,  faint  and 
spectral,  standing  on  the  distant  points  far  across  the 
waves,  with  here  and  there  a  tired  sail  wandering 
away  into  the  underworld,  as  if  nevermore  to  return; 
or  from  his  quiet  home  upon  the  hills  of  Piedmont 
saw,  day  after  day  from  childhood,  the  mighty  ridge, 
a  rampart  of  Cyclopean  steel,  thrown  all  athwart  the 
sky  and  fading  in  misty  fire  at  the  portals  of  the  setting 
sun;  or  in  the  great  valley  beheld  himself  in  an  earthly 

^30 


THE   OLD  VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

paradise,  shut  in  between  battlements  built  by  the  gods; 
or  in  the  heart  of  the  Alleghanies  felt  his  young  soul 
awed  by  the  huge  mountain  forms,  sphinxes  as  silent 
and  much  more  vast  than  that  of  Egypt;  live  wherever 
he  might  in  Virginia,  the  breadth  and  grandeur  of 
these  aspects  of  nature  imparted  their  solemnity  to 
him.  His  spirit  was  attuned  from  infancy  to  the  moan- 
ing of  the  pines  and  the  sea-like  murmur  of  the  wind  in 
the  forests  around  him;  the  desolation  and  barrenness 
of  some  of  his  neighbors'  fields,  wasted  by  bad  tillage, 
left  their  impress  upon  him;  insensibly  his  mind  took 
the  sombre  coloring  of  these  surroundings,  and,  how- 
ever gay  he  might  be  at  times,  the  warp  of  his  life  was 
always  grave. 

The  profound  sense  of  responsibility  to  his  Maker 
added  to  this  gravity.  As  husband,  father,  master,  he 
felt  to  the  full  the  weight  of  human  duty.  But  high 
above  them  all  rose  his  Roman  sense  of  civic  obliga- 
tion. Civis  Americanus  sum  had  in  his  day  a  meaning 
which  seems  lost  in  these  later  times.  That  meaning 
never  left  him.  He  could  not  forget  it,  and  what  is 
more,  he  did  not  want  to.  Often  the  presiding  magis- 
trate of  his  county;  often,  too,  its  representative  in  the 
legislature  or  in  congress,  he  continued  to  direct  its 
politics  long  after  he  ceased  to  take  active  part  in  them. 
His  interest  in  public  affairs  abated  only  with  his  breath. 
In  addition  to  the  many  cares  that  grew  out  of  this 
interest  were  the  scarcely  less  heavy  anxieties  that 
pressed  upon  him  as  the  friend,  the  counsellor,  the 
fiduciary,  the  referee,  and  the  arbitrator  in  the  troubles 
and  differences  of  opinion  among  his  neighbors.     His 

31 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

old  escritoire  or  secretary  was  full  of  wills,  deeds,  notes 
of  hand,  and  settlements  of  every  kind.  The  widow 
and  the  orphan  turned  at  once  to  him  in  all  their  trials. 
He  never  failed  them — never. 

His  reading  helped  largely  to  increase  the  gravity 
due  to  all  the  trusts  just  named.  The  Federalist  and 
other  writings  of  Madison,  the  works  of  George  Mason, 
Jefferson,  and  Calhoun,  Elliott's  Debates,  the  Greek 
and  especially  the  Roman  historians,  the  Letters  of 
Junius  and  the  speeches  of  Burke,  made  up  the  bulk 
of  his  library,  and  fed  his  mind  with  thoughts  of  that 
deepest  and  saddest  of  all  problems — human  govern- 
ment. If  his  neglect  of  scientific  studies  was,  as  I 
once  held,  simply  shameful,  it  was,  I  am  now  willing 
and  glad  to  believe,  because  science  had  not  done  in 
his  day  what  indeed  it  has  even  now  but  imperfectly 
done — found  its  true  objective  in  questions  of  govern- 
ment— the  one  paramount,  underlying,  and  absorbing 
interest  of  the  Virginian's  life.  His  place  on  the  border, 
in  immediate  sight  of  the  national  capital,  the  centre 
of  power,  would  not  permit  him  to  forget  the  boding 
prophecies  of  Henry  anterior  to  the  adoption  of  the 
Constitution.  In  his  ears  rang  ever  the  hollow  murmur 
of  that  "fire-bell  in  the  night"  that  affrighted  the 
philosopher  of  Monticello.  If,  jealously  guarding  the 
only  charter  of  rights  left  to  him  as  a  part  of  an  ever- 
weakening  minority,  he  insisted  upon  strict  construc- 
tions, not  of  the  letter  only,  but  of  the  spirit  of  the 
organic  law,  and  that  were  a  fault,  it  was  a  fault  from 
which  there  was  no  escape  short  of  absolute  surrender 
of  his  own  liberty  and  that  of  the  American  people. 

32 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

His  nice  distinctions  were  drawn  in  defence  of  truth, 
of  justice,  of  the  good  of  the  whole  Union,  nay,  of  all 
mankind;  and  he  did  well  to  split  hairs  when  but  a 
hair  stood  between  him  and  degradation. 

Could  he  for  a  moment  fail  to  remember  that  the 
moral  of  the  American  Revolution,  its  sole  value  and 
excuse,  was  the  right  (supposed  to  have  been  achieved 
after  ages  of  strife)  of  self-government,  the  remem- 
brance was  forced  back  upon  him  by  continued  as- 
saults upon  his  character,  his  property,  and  all  he  held 
dear,  by  a  horde  of  enemies  ever  increasing  in  numbers 
and  bitterness.  Yet  it  is  contended  by  those  who, 
pandering  to  the  evil  spirit  of  the  hour,  are  more  un- 
willing than  unable  to  take  in  the  full  scope  of  this  still 
important  argument,  that  in  grasping  at  shadows  the 
Virginian  lost  the  substance  of  power,  and  gave  up  for 
metaphysics  a  prosperity  he  might  easily  have  retained. 
I  deny  it  utterly. 

Conceding  for  the  moment  that  there  can  be  lasting 
prosperity  without  good  government,  I  point  to  the 
map.  The  configuration  of  the  American  continent, 
the  north-eastward  trend  of  the  Atlantic  coast,  and  the 
course  of  the  Gulf  Stream,  which  still  carries  the  steam- 
ship in  the  very  path  of  the  sailing  vessel,  were  not 
of  the  Virginian's  making.  Climate  and  soil,  which 
made  manufactures  a  necessity  in  New  England,  made 
agriculture  a  luxury  to  the  Virginian.  Yet  he  tried 
manufactures.  How  exceeding  wise  are  the  sons  of 
to-day  who  twit  their  fathers  with  not  having  done  this! 
Over  and  again  the  Virginian  tried  them,  and  over  again 
was  he  crushed  by  associated  capital.     Immigration, 

33 


THE    OLD   VIKGINIA    GENTLEMAN 

determined  in  part  by  latitude  and  isotherms,  but 
rigorously  by  proximity,  ease  and  rapidity  of  access, 
the  Virginian  could  no  more  control  than  he  could  con- 
trol the  motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  yet  despite  im- 
migration, dense  population,  and  concentrated  wealth, 
despite  tariffs  and  protective  laws  devised  for  his  ruin, 
he  and  his  brethren  of  the  South  at  the  outbreaking  of 
the  late  war  were  richer  far,  man  for  man,  than  their 
fellows  of  the  North.  Property  was  more  evenly  dis- 
tributed, crime  and  pauperism  were  almost  unknown, 
jails  were  empty,  poor-houses  empty,  beggars  were 
wonders,  and  social  elevation,  large  areas  considered, 
was  incomparably  superior.  An  old  song,  this.  Yes, 
but  it  needs  repeating  when  a  Virginian  declares  that 
the  Virginians  of  his  own  day  lack  "public  spirit." 
Masterly  as  the  oration  at  Randolph  Macon  undoubt- 
edly was,  and  much  needed  as  was  the  rebuke  then 
administered  to  our  overweening  self-esteem,  some- 
thing may  be  said  on  the  other  side.  Indeed,  the 
very  highest  proof  ever  given  of  the  large  and  gen- 
erous spirit  of  Virginians  was  the  burst  of  applause 
that  everywhere  greeted  an  accusation  which,  coming 
from  a  son  less  tried  and  proven  by  the  fire  of  battle, 
might  well  have  been  accounted  abuse  and  almost 
slander. 

Virginians  wanting  in  public  spirit?  'Tis  a  new 
accusation  indeed.  Why,  the  cuckoo  cry  of  the  North 
for  half  a  century  has  been  that  the  Virginian  devoted 
his  time  to  politics,  to  the  utter  neglect  of  his  private 
affairs.  Well  I  know,  and  so  does  he,  what  manner  of 
spirit  it  was  that  fired  Virginia  in  1860,  but  'tis  not  of 

34 


THE   OLD  VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

that  he  speaks.  Perhaps  he  means  that,  engrossed  in 
self-admiration,  our  narrow  sympathies  would  not  per- 
mit us  to  love,  I  will  not  say  the  Yankees,  but  the  Amer- 
ican people.  In  my  soul,  I  think  the  Virginian  loved 
them  better  than  they  loved  themselves;  for  he  who 
truly  loves  liberty  loves  truly  and  to  purpose  all  man- 
kind. Is  it  public  improvements  that  he  means? 
Possibly,  for  public  spirit  and  running  in  debt — hasten- 
ing a  premature  and  unstable  civilization — seem  to  be 
synonymous  nowadays.  Well,  then,  I  will  take  the 
forty  millions,  spent  much  against  the  old  Virginia  gen- 
tleman's will,  in  railroads  and  canals,  that  have  brought 
the  State  to  the  verge  of  bankruptcy  and  repudiation, 
when  a  tithe  of  that  sum  expended,  in  maintenance  of 
his  faith,  upon  a  well-devised  system  of  county  roads 
would  have  made  ours  the  happiest  and  most  solvent 
commonwealth  in  the  South,  if  not  in  all  the  land. 
What  call  you  that  ?  Fealty  to  the  first  great  principle 
of  our  American  form  of  government — the  minimum  of 
State  interference  and  assistance  in  order  to  attain  the 
maximum  of  individual  development  and  endeavor — 
that  was  the  Virginian's  conception  of  public  spirit, 
and,  if  our  system  be  right,  it  is  the  right  conception. 

Aye!  but  the  Virginian  made  slavery  the  touchstone 
and  the  test  in  all  things  whatsoever,  State  or  Federal. 
Truly  he  did,  and  why  ? 

This  button  here  upon  my  cuff  is  valueless,  whether 
for  use  or  for  ornament,  but  you  shall  not  tear  it  from 
me  and  spit  in  my  face  besides;  no,  not  if  it  cost  me 
my  life.  And  if  your  time  be  passed  in  the  attempt  to 
so  take  it,  then  my  time  and  my  every  thought  shall  be 

35 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

spent  in  preventing  such  outrage.  Let  alone,  the  Vir- 
ginian would  gladly  have  made  an  end  of  slavery,  but, 
strange  hap!  malevolence  and  meddling  bound  it  up 
with  every  interest  that  was  dear  to  his  heart — wife, 
home,  honor — and  by  a  sad  providence  it  became  the 
midmost  boss,  the  very  centre  of  that  buckler  of  State 
rights  which  he  held  up  against  the  worst  of  tyrants — 
a  sectional  majority. 

But  a  darker  accusation  yet  remains.  This  also  is 
a  discovery — made  since  the  war.  It  is  charged  that 
our  fathers  threw  away  a  great  estate,  an  empire  in 
truth,  and  surrendered  constitutional  rights  of  inesti- 
mable value,  not  for  love  of  our  common  country,  for 
peace  and  brotherhood,  but  for  what,  think  you  ? 
Mark  it  well — for  the  sake  of  Federal  office,  and  that 
alone!  Yes!  this  is  the  accusation  brought  by  Virgin- 
ians against  their  fathers.  No  Yankee  brings  it.  I 
never  heard  it  till  a  Virginian  of  1876  brought  it. 
Though  I  may  be  excused  for  calling  in  question  the 
motive  of  him  who  imputes  such  motives  to  others  of 
his  own  flesh  and  blood,  I  will  not  do  so.  I  will  sum- 
mon history  to  bar,  and  ask  her  whether  the  Virginians 
who  espoused  New  England's  cause  and  perished  amid 
the  snows  of  Canada  were  office-seeking  when  they 
died  ?  And  I  will  file  in  answer  to  this  charge  a  single 
act  of  our  Legislature  in  1867,  when  Virginia,  impover- 
ished and  dissevered,  assumed  the  entire  indebtedness, 
principal  and  interest,  of  two  States.  Was  that  office- 
seeking?    Was  that  the  prompting  of  self-interest? 

Noble  folly?  Magnanimous  stupidity?  Nay,  I 
reckon  it  rather  the  dying  murmur,  the  last  true  beat 

36 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

of  that  great  Virginia  heart,  whose  generous  and  un- 
selfish pulse  kept  time  to  an  exalted  sense  of  duty. 

This  doubtless  was  the  weakness  of  the  Virginia  gen- 
tleman of  the  olden  time.  It  was  not  the  weakness  of 
a  mean  or  grovelling  spirit,  or  one  in  imitation  of  which 
the  world  will  soon  destroy  itself.  He  was  not  wiser, 
he  was  not  more  learned,  he  was  not  more  successful 
than  other  men.  Wherein,  then,  lay  his  strength,  and 
what  was  the  secret  of  his  influence  over  all  this  land  ? 
I  answer  in  one  word — character.  And  what  is  meant 
by  character?  Courage?  Yes;  the  courage  of  his 
opinions,  and  physical  courage  as  well,  for  he  had  a 
Briton's  faith  in  pluck.  Pride  of  race?  In  a  limited 
sense,  yes.  Honesty?  The  question  is  almost  an 
insult.  "  Madam,"  said  Judge  John  Robertson,  when 
in  Congress,  to  his  wife,  who  asked  him  to  frank  a 
letter  for  her,  "Madam,  I  am  not  a  thief!"  Love  of 
truth?  Yes;  undying  love  of  it.  And  more — what 
more  ?  A  certain  inherited  something  in  the  blood  and 
bodily  fibre  that  fused  all  these  qualities  and  lifted 
them  as  steady  concentrated  light  in  a  Pharos,  so  that 
the  simple  look  of  the  man,  the  poise  of  his  head,  his 
very  gait,  betrayed  the  elevation  of  his  nature.  Therein 
lay  his  strength,  before  which  wiser  men,  as  the  world 
runs,  and  far  wealthier  men  bowed  almost  in  homage. 
Character — character,  fixed  upon  the  immutable  basis 
of  honor,  and  a  love  of  liberty  unquenchable — that 
was  the  source  of  his  power,  and  the  whole  of  it. 

From  the  pale,  defeated  lips  of  Virginians,  weak- 
ened by  poverty,  comes  the  sneer  (we  hear  it  too 
often  nowadays),  "Can  honor  set  a  leg?"     No,  truly; 

37 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA    GENTLEMAN 

but  dishonor  can  damn  to  everlasting  infamy  a  human 
soul. 

But  whatever  its  source,  character,  or  what  you  will, 
the  greatness  of  the  Virginian  in  times  past  cannot  be 
gainsaid;  it  is  everywhere  conceded.  And  yet  this 
mediocre  age,  which  sneers  at  honor,  naturally  enough 
decries  greatness.  Decries  ?  yea,  denies  its  very  exist- 
ence. "The  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more 
and  more."  So  much  the  worse  for  the  world,  were  it 
true.  They  who  looked  Lee  and  Jackson  in  the  face, 
and  fought  under  them;  they  who  have  seen  Bismarck 
and  King  William  make  Germany  in  the  very  teeth  of 
its  hostile  Reichstag,  believe  it.  How  passing  strange! 
String  ciphers  till  the  crack  of  doom,  they  count  noth- 
ing. Cut  out  of  the  world's  book  the  pages  made 
lustrous  by  the  words  and  deeds  of  great  men,  and  the 
rest  is  blank.  Myriads  living  in  Africa  for  unnum- 
bered centuries  have  left  no  sign.  But  look  at  Greece; 
at  only  one  of  its  States.  Galton,  in  his  able  work  on 
"Hereditary  Genius,"  calls  attention  to  the  "magnificent 
breed  of  human  animals"  reared  in  a  single  century  in 
Attica,  enumerates  fourteen  of  the  greatest  of  them, 
and  says,  "We  have  no  men  to  put  by  the  side  of  Soc- 
rates and  Phidias.  The  millions  of  all  Europe,  breed- 
ing for  two  thousand  years,  have  never  produced  their 
equals.  The  population  which  produced  these  men 
amounted  to  135,000  free  males,  born  in  the  century 
named,  530-430  B.  C." 

On  the  first  day  of  December,  1763,  Patrick  Henry 
made  his  speech  in  the  Parsons'  cause,  and  after  the 
Convention  of  '29-'30  the  giants  no  longer  assembled  in 

38 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

Virginia.  I  will  put  the  breed  of  human  animals  reared 
in  this  interval,  less  than  a  century,  out  of  a  free  male 
population  not  exceeding  that  of  Attica,  against  any 
other  ever  produced  in  this  world.  I  doubt  if  the  Roman 
senate  or  the  Athenian  Areopagus  ever  at  one  time  con- 
tained quite  such  a  body  of  men  as  were  gathered  in 
our  famous  Convention,  and  I  will  say,  with  Galton, 
that  we  have  not  now,  nor  are  we  likely  ever  again  to 
have,  two  such  men  as  Washington  and  Jefferson. 

But,  would  you  believe  it,  Jefferson  is  a  plagiarist! 
a  thief  not  only  of  words,  but  of  ideas!  He  has  no 
claim  to  originality — his  thoughts,  his  very  language, 
everything  borrowed  or  stolen  outright!  That  has  been 
deliberately  and  publicly  charged,  not  by  men  of  the 
North,  but  by  a  Virginian.     Well,  let  us  see. 

"This  new  principle  of  so  constituting  a  federal 
republic  as  to  make  it  'one  nation  as  to  foreign  con- 
cerns, and  to  keep  us  distinct  as  to  domestic  ones,' 
was  indicated  as  early  as  December,  1786,  by  Mr. 
Jefferson  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Madison."  That  is  an 
historical  fact,  testified  to  by  Alex.  H.  Stephens. 

"It  is  the  very  greatest  refinement  in  social  policy 
to  which  any  state  of  circumstances  has  ever  given 
rise,  or  to  which  any  age  has  ever  given  birth."  That 
is  the  testimony  of  Lord  Brougham.  "It  is  a  wholly 
novel  thing,  which  may  be  considered  a  great  discov- 
ery in  modern  political  science,  and  for  which  there  is 
even  yet  no  specific  name."  That  is  the  testimony 
of  De  Tocqueville.  This  will  suffice.  Jefferson's  fame 
is  firm-based  as  the  pyramids;  it  cannot  be  shaken; 
and  they  who  decry  him  do  but  belittle  themselves. 

39 


THE   OLD  VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

A  soil  is  known  by  its  crops,  a  tree  by  its  fruit. 
Materials  are  tested  by  the  strain  they  will  bear; 
flowers  give  forth  their  sweets  under  compression,  but 
yield  their  inmost  virtues  only  to  the  torture  of  the  cru- 
cible. The  flowers  and  the  fruitage  of  a  land  are  its 
men.  The  test  of  men  is  the  strain  of  war;  the  supreme 
test  the  torture  of  defeat.  Virginians  were  tested  in 
the  War  of  the  Revolution,  again  in  1812,  again  in 
Mexico,  again  in  the  great  rebellion,  so  called,  and  yet 
again  in  the  long  torture  of  reconstruction.  Where,  I 
ask  in  the  candor  of  a  triumph  so  amazing  that  it 
almost  humiliates,  where  are  all  the  honors?  Were 
these  successive  honors  the  result  of  chance?  Are  the 
great  names  and  the  heroic  deeds  associated  with  these 
wars  of  no  value  ?  There  can  be  but  one  answer,  and 
it  is  so  complete  it  saddens  me;  for  well  I  know — I 
think  I  know — the  end  has  come.  It  has  certainly 
come  if,  for  the  sake  of  present  comfort,  the  Virginians 
of  to-day  are  willing  to  forfeit  these  honors  and  to 
despise  these  names.  What  neither  war  nor  defeat 
could  effect,  poverty,  long  continued,  has  accomplished 
— it  has  broken  them  down  at  last.     I  fear  so,  indeed. 

My  friends,  it  is  not  I  who  say  it;  it  is  nature,  it  is 
God  who  says  it — man,  like  all  other  organisms,  is  sub- 
ject to  his  environment.  Change  the  environment,  he 
changes  with  it;  destroy  it,  and  he  is  destroyed.  But 
'tis  not  the  earth  he  treads  nor  the  air  he  breathes  that 
constitutes  man's  true  environment;  it  is  the  social 
atmosphere  that  makes  the  man  or  mars  him.  Great 
minds,  great  hearts,  noble  spirits,  are  not  fed  on  base 
thoughts  and  low  ambitions;    and  if  the  glory  of  Vir- 

40 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

glnia  in  the  past  has  been  incontestably  greater  than 
that  of  all  her  sister  States  combined,  it  must  be  be- 
cause her  sons  inhaled  at  home  a  finer,  purer  air.  Ask 
yourselves  whether  that  atmosphere  has  changed  or  is 
changing,  and  frankly  own  all  of  good  or  ill  that  slavery 
involves.  If  it  accompanied  here,  as  in  Greece,  the 
development  of  a  splendid  breed  of  animals,  say  so; 
if  it  helped  that  development,  say  so  fearlessly.  For 
one,  I  say  with  confidence,  that  the  abolition  of  slavery 
has  so  changed  the  environment  of  the  Virginian  that 
another  and  wholly  different  man  must  take  his  place. 
Will  he  be  a  better  man  ?  I  do  not  know ;  I  hope  he 
may.     Will  he  be  worse?    Time  will  tell. 

But  whatever  the  Virginian  may  have  been,  the 
coldest  envy  and  the  meanest  jealousy  may  look  upon 
him  now  with  complacency.  If  he  were  vain,  his  van- 
ity stands  him  now  in  little  stead.  If  he  were  proud, 
his  pride  need  wound  you  no  longer.  "No  farther 
seek  his  virtues  to  disclose,  or  draw  his  frailties  from 
their  dread  abode;"   but  come — 


I 

Come  listen  to  another  song, 

Should  make  your  heart  beat  high, 
Bring  crimson  to  your  forehead, 
And  lustre  to  your  eye. 
It  is  a  tale  of  olden  time, 

Of  days  long  since  gone  by, 
And  of  a  baron  stout  and  bold 
As  e'er  wore  sword  on  thigh, 
Like  a  brave  Virginia  gentleman 
All  of  the  olden  time. 

41 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 
II 

His  castle  was  his  country  home 

Hard  by  the  river  James, 
Full  two  hundred  servants  dwelt  around — 
He  called  them  by  their  names; 
And  life  to  them  no  hardship  was, 

'Twas  all  things  else  I  ween; 
They  were  the  happiest  peasantry 
This  world  has  ever  seen, 
Despite  the  Abolition  chevaliers 
All  of  the  Northern  clime! 

Ill 

His  father  drew  his  trusty  sword 
In  Freedom's  righteous  cause, 
Among  the  gallant  gentlemen 
Who  made  nor  stop  nor  pause 
Till  they  had  broken  wide  apart 

The  British  bolts  and  bars, 
And  lifted  up  to  Freedom's  sky 
The  standard  of  the  stars, 
Like  true  rebellious  gentlemen 
All  of  that  manly  time. 

IV 

He  never  owned  a  foreign  rule, 

A  master  he  would  scorn; 
Trained  in  the  Revolution's  school, 
To  Liberty  was  born! 

And  when  they  asked  him  for  his  oath, 

He  touched  his  war-worn  blade, 
And  pointed  to  his  lapel  gray, 
That  bore  the  blue  cockade! 
Like  a  straight-out  States'  Rights  gentleman, 
All  of  that  trying  time. 
42 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA    GENTLEMAN 
V 

And  then  the  words  rang  through  the  land, 
"Coercion  is  to  be!" 
"Coercion  of  the  free?" 
That  night  the  dreadful  news  was  spread. 
From  mountains  to  the  sea; 
And  our  old  Baron  rose  in  might 

Like  a  lion  from  his  den, 
And  rode  in  haste  across  the  hills 
To  join  the  fighting  men, 
Like  a  staunch  Virginia  gentleman, 
All  of  the  olden  time. 

VI 

He  was  the  first  to  fire  the  gun 

When  Sumter  was  assailed, 
He  it  was  who  life  disdained 
When  our  Great  Cause  had  failed, 
And  ever  in  the  van  of  fight 
The  foremost  still  he  trod, 
Until  on  Appomattox'  height 
He  gave  his  soul  to  God, 
Like  a  good  Virginia  gentleman, 
All  of  the  olden  time. 

VII 

Ah!  never  shall  we  know  again 

A  heart  so  stout  and  true; 
The  olden  times  have  passed  away, 
And  weary  are  the  new. 
The  fair  white  rose  has  faded 

From  the  garden  where  it  grew, 
And  no  fond  tears  save  those  of  heaven 
The  glorious  bed  bedew 
Of  the  last  Virginia  gentleman 
All  of  the  olden  time! 

43 


THE   OLD   VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN 

Oh!  good  gray  head  of  Arlington!  when  thy  great 
sore  heart,  that  ever  took  unto  itself  all  blame,  burst 
behind  the  mute  lips,  and  Rockbridge  earth  received 
the  stateliest  man  of  all  our  time,  then  indeed  the  last 
Virginia  gentleman  was  laid  to  sleep  in  his  mother's 
lap,  and  the  heroic  age  of  Virginia  ended.  "The 
spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth"  come  not  again; 
there  is  no  second  age  of  Pericles.* 

*  Doubtless  the  picture  here  drawn  of  Virginia  as  she  was  is 
idealized.  Purposely  so.  Not  for  a  moment  could  any  Virginian 
say  that  there  was  nothing  amiss  in  the  old  order.  Alas!  there 
is  much  amiss  in  every  structure,  old  or  new.  Educated  at  the 
North,  I  was  perhaps  more  keenly  alive  to  the  defects  of  our  sys- 
tem than  almost  any  Virginian  of  my  time.  And  so  long  as  the 
good  Commonwealth  lived  I  did  not  fail  to  mix  in  every  pane- 
gyric I  wrote — and  there  were  several — a  full  proportion  of  good- 
natured  satire.  If  I  have  praised  Virginia  without  stint,  I  have, 
in  times  past,  ridiculed  her  unsparingly.  But  our  Mother  is 
dead,  and  much  may  be  pardoned  in  a  eulogy  which  would  be 
inexcusable  were  the  subject  living.  I  ask  no  man's  pardon  for 
what  must  seem  to  a  stranger  a  most  exaggerated  estimate  of 
my  State  and  its  peoples/In  simple  truth  and  beyond  question 
there  was  in  our  Virginia  country  life  a  beauty,  a  simplicity,  a 
purity,  an  uprightness,  a  cordial  and  lavish  hospitality,  warmth 
and  grace  which  shine  in  the  lens  of  memory  with  a  charm  that 
passes  all  language  at  my  command.  It  is  gone  with  the  social 
structure  that  gave  it  birth,  and  were  I  great,  I  would  embalm 
it  in  the  amber  of  such  prose  and  verse  as  has  not  been  written 
since  John  Milton  laid  down  his  pen.  Only  greatness  can  fitly 
do  it. — Author's  note.    M 


44 


II 

BACON  AND   GREENS 

[T  is  morning — clear,  cold,  sparkling — an  autumn 
morning.  Come  with  me  into  the  garden.  The 
frost  lies  heavy  on  the  palings,  and  tips  with  silver  the 
tops  of  the  butter-bean  poles,  where  the  sere  and  yel- 
low pods  are  chattering  in  the  chilly  breeze.  On  yon- 
der fence  hangs  many  a  gourd,  once  green,  but  scabby 
now  and  nearly  ripe.  Across  the  walk,  in  that  broad 
bed,  "severial"  paunchy  "punkins"  lie,  half-awakened 
by  the  distant  rooster's  call.  The  lily  and  the  rose, 
the  tulip  and  the  violet,  the  sunflower  and  the  holly- 
hock are  dead.  Beautiful,  but  feeble,  they  have  per- 
ished early;  and  the  humming-birds  and  the  bumble- 
bees and  the  Juney-bugs,  which  knew  them  once,  shall 
know  them  no  more  forever.  One  flower  alone  sur- 
vives— a  sturdy  flower,  that  scorns  Jack  Frost — a  re- 
markable flower,  for  it  is  at  once  a  flower  and  a  fruit, 
and  it  is  all  flower,  and  is  its  own  bush  and  its  own 
leaves.  Let  us  reverently  draw  nigh  unto  it.  Gods! 
what  a  bud!  And  see,  alas!  how  its  gigantic  petals 
have  been  pecked  by  the  turkeys!  May  we  not  vent- 
ure to  touch  the  mighty  bud!  Heavens!  'tis  not  a 
bud — 'tis  a  head!  Finer  head  Fowler  the  phrenolo- 
gist never  felt.     How  crisp  and  cool,  how  firm,  and  full 

45 


BACON   AND   GREENS 

as  it  were  of  brains  this  head  is!  And  what  a  peculiar 
whitey-greenish  color,  and  what  a  still  more  peculiar 
sort  of  culinary  odor!  Surely  we  have  smelt  it  before. 
Yes;  this  is  the  cabbage,  sacred  to  tailors  and  to  the 
Virginia  dinner-table. 

Here  the  vegetable  portion  of  our  subject  ends,  and 
we  approach  that  strange  variety  of  mankind  which  is 
compounded  of  bacon  on  the  one  hand,  and  cabbage 
or  greens  on  the  other  hand.  In  the  wildest  flight  of 
imagination,  who  would  ever  have  supposed  that  the 
savage  boar  of  the  German  forests  and  the  ugly  pot- 
herb of  the  sea-cliffs  of  England  would  come  together 
in  the  same  dish  to  produce  the  Virginian  ?  So  true  it 
is  that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction.  I  say,  the  Vir- 
ginian; for  while  other  people  eat  bacon  and  greens 
(and  thereby  become  very  decent  people  indeed),  the 
only  perfect  bacon  and  the  only  perfect  greens  are 
found  in  Virginia;  and  hence  it  follows,  as  the  night 
the  day,  not  that  the  Virginians  are  the  only  perfect 
people,  but  that  they  are  a  peculiar  and  a  very  remark- 
able people. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  native  Virginian  is  different 
from  all  other  folks  whatsoever,  and  the  difference 
between  him  and  other  folks  is  precisely  the  difference 
between  his  bacon  and  greens  and  other  folks'  bacon 
and  greens.  How  great  this  difference  is,  you  are  by 
no  means  aware.  There  is  a  theory  in  the  books  that 
the  superiority  of  the  Westphalia  and  Virginia  bacon 
over  all  other  bacon  is  due  to  the  fact  that  our  hogs  are 
not  penned  up,  but  are  allowed  the  free  range  of  the 
fields  and  forests. 

46 


BACON   AND   GREENS 

Nevertheless,  you  are  not  to  infer  that  the  Virginian 
is  composed  of  equal  parts  of  bacon  and  greens,  and 
that  he  is,  in  point  of  fact,  a  saphead  and  a  glutton. 
Such  a  conclusion  would  not  only  be  unkind,  but 
illogical.  Drinking  train-oil  does  not  necessarily  turn 
a  man  into  an  Eskimo,  nor  does  the  eating  of  curry 
compel  one  to  become  a  coolie  and  worship  Vishnu 
or  Confucius.  Still,  there  is  a  connection  between 
diet  and  the  ethnological  characteristics  of  the  human 
races;  and  I  take  it  for  granted,  first,  that  a  Virginian 
could  not  be  a  Virginian  without  bacon  and  greens; 
and,  second,  that  in  every  Virginian  traces  of  bacon 
and  traces  of  greens  are  distinctly  perceptible.  How 
else  are  you  to  account  for  the  Virginia  love  of  good 
eating,  the  Virginia  indifference  to  dress  and  house- 
hold economy,  and  the  incurable  simplicity  of  the  Vir- 
ginia head?  It  has  been  affirmed  by  certain  specu- 
lative philosophers  that  the  Virginian  persists  in  ex- 
hausting his  soil  with  tobacco,  because  the  cabbage  he 
eats  is  itself  an  exhauster  of  the  soil,  and  that,  because 
the  hog  is  fond  of  wallowing  in  mud-puddles,  therefore 
the  Virginian  takes  naturally  to  politics. 

I  am  not  prepared  to  dispute  these  points,  but  I  am 
tolerably  certain  that  a  few  other  things  besides  bacon 
and  greens  are  required  to  make  a  true  Virginian.  He 
must,  of  course,  begin  on  pot-liquor,  and  keep  it  up 
until  he  sheds  his  milk-teeth.  He  must  have  fried 
chicken,  stewed  chicken,  broiled  chicken,  and  chicken 
pie;  old  hare,  butter-beans,  new  potatoes,  squirrel, 
cymlings,  snaps,  barbecued  shoat,  roas'n  ears,  butter- 
milk, hoe-cake,  ash-cake,    pancake,    fritters,   pot-pie. 

47 


BACON  AND  GREENS 

tomatoes,  sweet-potatoes,  June  apples,  waffles,  sweet 
milk,  parsnips,  artichokes,  carrots,  cracklin  bread, 
hominy,  bonny-clabber,  scrambled  eggs,  gooba-peas, 
fried  apples,  pop-corn,  persimmon  beer,  apple-bread, 
milk  and  peaches,  mutton  stew,  dewberries,  batter- 
cakes,  mushmelons,  hickory  nuts,  partridges,  honey  in 
the  honey-comb,  snappin'-turtle  eggs,  damson  tarts, 
catfish,  cider,  hot  light-bread,  and  cornfield  peas  all 
the  time;  but  he  must  not  intermit  his  bacon  and 
greens. 

He  must  butt  heads  with  little  negroes,  get  the  worst 
of  it,  and  run  crying  to  tell  his  ma  about  it.  Wear 
white  yarn  socks  with  green  toes  and  yarn  gallowses. 
Get  the  cow-itch,  and  live  on  milk  and  brimstone  for 
a  time.  Make  frog-houses  over  his  feet  in  the  wet 
sand,  and  find  woodpecker  nests.  Meddle  with  the 
negro  men  at  hog-killing  time,  and  be  in  everybody's 
way  generally.  Upset  beehives,  bring  big  wasp-nests 
into  the  house,  and  get  stung  over  the  eye  by  a  yellow- 
jacket.  Watch  setting  turkeys,  and  own  a  bench-leg 
fice  and  a  speckled  shoat.  Wade  in  the  branch,  eat 
too  many  black-heart  cherries,  try  to  tame  a  catbird, 
call  doodle-bugs  out  of  their  holes — and  keep  on  eating 
bacon  and  greens. 

He  must  make  partridge-traps  out  of  tobacco-sticks; 
set  gums  for  "Mollie-cotton-tails,"  mash-traps  and 
deadfalls  for  minks;  fish  for  minnows  with  a  pin-hook, 
and  carry  his  worms  in  a  cymling;  tie  Juney-bugs  to 
strings,  and  sing  'em  under  people's  noses;  stump  his 
toe  and  have  it  tied  up  in  a  rag;  wear  patched  breeches, 
stick  thorns  in  his  heel,  and  split  his  thumb  open  slicing 

48 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

"hoss-cakes"  with  a  dog-knife  sharpened,  contrary  to 
orders,  on  the  grindstone. 

At  eight  years  old  he  must  know  how  to  spell  b  a  ba, 
b  e  be,  and  so  on;  and  be  abused  for  not  learning  his 
multiplication  table,  for  riding  the  sorrel  mare  at  a  strain 
to  the  horse-pond,  and  for  snoring  regularly  at  family 
prayers.  Still  he  must  continue  to  eat  bacon  and  greens. 
About  this  time  of  life,  or  a  little  later,  he  must  get  his 
first  suit  of  store  clothes,  and  be  sorely  afflicted  with 
freckles,  stone-bruises,  hang-nails,  mumps,  and  warts, 
which  last  he  delights  in  trimming  with  a  Barlow-knife, 
obtained  by  dint  of  hard  swapping.  He  must  now  go 
to  old-field  school,  and  carry  his  snack  in  a  tin  bucket, 
with  a  little  bottle  of  molasses,  stopped  with  a  corn-cob 
stopper,  and  learn  how  to  play  marbles  for  good,  and 
to  tell  stories  about  getting  late  to  school — because  he 
fell  in  the  branch.  Also  to  steal  June  apples  and  bury 
them,  that  they  may  ripen  the  sooner  for  his  big  sweet- 
heart, who  sits  next  to  him.  He  must  have  a  pop-gun, 
made  of  elder,  with  plenty  of  tow  to  "chaw"  for  wads; 
also  plenty  of  india-rubber,  and  cut  up  his  father's 
gum  shoes,  to  make  trap-balls,  composed  of  equal  parts 
of  yarn  and  india-rubber.  At  the  same  time  he  must 
keep  steadily  eating  bacon  and  greens.  He  must  now 
learn  to  cut  jackets,  play  hard-ball,  choose  partners  for 
cat  and  chermany,  be  kept  in,  fight  every  other  day, 
and  be  turned  out  for  painting  his  face  with  pokeberry 
juice  and  grinning  at  the  school-master. 

After  a  good  whipping  from  his  father,  who  threatens 
to  apprentice  him  to  a  carpenter,  he  enjoys  his  holiday 
by  breaking  colts  and  shooting  field-larks  in  the  daytime 

49 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

and  by  possum-hunting  or  listening  to  ghost-stories  from 
the  negroes  in  the  night. 

Returning  to  school,  he  studies  pretty  well  for  a 
time;  but  the  love  of  mischief  is  so  strong  within  him 
that,  for  his  life,  he  can't  refrain  from  putting  crooked 
pins  on  the  benches  where  the  little  boys  sit,  and  even 
in  the  school-master's  chair.  The  result  is  a  severe 
battle  with  the  school-master  and  his  permanent  dis- 
missal. 

Thrown  upon  the  world,  he  consoles  himself  with 
bacon  and  greens,  makes  love  to  a  number  of  pretty 
girls,  and  pretends  to  play  overseer.  Failing  at  that, 
he  tries  to  keep  somebody's  country  store,  but  will 
close  the  doors  whenever  the  weather  is  fine  to  "ketch 
chub"  or  play  knucks. 

Tired  of  store-keeping,  he  makes  a  trip,  sometimes 
all  the  way  on  horseback,  to  the  Far  South,  to  look 
after  his  father's  lands.  Plays  "poker"  on  the  Mis- 
sissippi, gets  cheated,  gets  "strapped";  returns  home, 
eats  bacon  and  greens,  and  determines  to  be  a  better 
man.  But  the  first  thing  he  knows  he  is  off  on  a  frolic 
in  Richmond,  where  he  loses  all  his  money  at  faro, 
borrows  enough  to  carry  him  home  and  buy  a  suit  to 
go  courting  in. 

He  next  gets  religion  at  a  camp-meeting,  and  loses 
it  at  a  barbecue  or  fish-fry.  Then  he  thinks  he  will 
teach  school,  or  ride  deputy  sheriff,  or  write  in  the 
clerk's  office,  and  actually  begins  to  study  law;  on  the 
strength  of  which  he  becomes  engaged  to  be  married, 
and  runs  for  the  legislature.  Gets  beaten,  gets  drunk; 
reforms,  all  of  a  sudden;  eats  plenty  of  bacon  and 

50 


BACON   AND   GREENS 

greens;  marries — much  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  own, 
and  greatly  to  the  horror  of  his  wife's  family — and 
thus  becomes  a  thorough-going  Virginian. 

His  name,  for  the  most  part,  is  Jeems — Jeems 
Jimmison.  Sometimes  it  is  rather  a  homely  name, 
as,  for  example,  Larkin  Peasley.  Occasionally  it  is 
a  pretty  and  even  a  romantic  name,  as  for  instance, 
Conrad,  or,  to  speak  properly,  Coonrod — Coonrod 
Higginbottom. 

Being  a  married  man,  it  is  incumbent  on  Coonrod 
to  settle  down  in  life;  and  to  this  end  he  selects,  with 
unerring  accuracy,  a  piece  of  the  poorest  "hennest" 
grass-land  in  his  native  county.  The  traveller  enters 
this  domain  through  a  rickety  "  big-gate,"  partly  up- 
held by  mighty  posts,  which  remind  him  of  the  dru- 
idical  remains  at  Stonehenge.  The  road  leads  appar- 
ently nowhere,  through  thickets  of  old-field  pine  and 
scrub-oak.  Here  and  there  is  an  opening  in  the  woods, 
with  a  lonely,  crank-sided  tobacco-house  in  the  midst, 
looking  as  if  it  were  waiting  resignedly  for  the  end 
of  the  world  to  come.  He  hears  the  crows  cawing, 
the  woodpeckers  tapping,  and  the  log-cocks  drumming, 
but  sees  no  human  being.  Far  away  the  roosters  are 
crowing,  and  perhaps  the  scream  of  the  peacock  is 
heard.  Slowly  sailing,  white-billed  buzzards  eye  him 
from  on  high  and  make  him  nervous.  Over  the  trees, 
he  can't  tell  where  exactly,  come  the  voices  of  the 
ploughers— "Gee,"  "Wo-haw,"  "Git  up."  He  rides 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  but  finds  nobody.  Anon 
he  encounters  an  ox-cart,  which  turns  aside  for  him. 
"Wo,  Lamb!"  "Come  here,  Darlin'!"  "Back,  Buck!" 

51 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

"Back!  I  tell  you."  The  driver  touches  his  hat  and 
says,  "Sarvunt,  marster,"  but  is  too  busy  with  his 
steers  to  give  any  directions.  And,  when  his  pa- 
tience is  fairly  exhausted  by  a  succession  of  dilapidated 
gates,  tied  up  with  grapevines,  and  complicated  draw- 
bars, which  compel  him  to  get  down  from  his  horse 
and  fill  his  hands  with  turpentine  (for  Larkin's  negroes 
won't  half  skin  the  poles  which  make  the  drawbars) — 
when  the  traveller  is  thus  bewildered  and  exhausted, 
and  half  tempted  to  turn  back,  he  is  suddenly  relieved 
by  an  ebony  apparition,  resembling  somewhat  a  kan- 
garoo, clad  in  a  solitary,  mud-colored  cotton  garment, 
split  up  to  the  arm-pit  on  one  side,  and  dexterously 
kept  in  position  by  a  peculiar  upward  twist  of  the 
shoulder  on  the  other  side.  This  black-legged  little 
spectre  pops  out  of  a  gully,  where  he  has  been  qui- 
etly eating  dirt,  darts  over  the  broom-straw,  knocks 
down  the  mullein  stalks,  crashes  through  the  sassafras 
clump,  "skeets"  through  the  brier  patch,  shoots  around 
the  plum  bushes  and  up  the  lane,  under  the  morillo 
cherry-trees,  disappears  behind  the  fodder  and  straw 
stacks,  winds  in  between  the  stable,  corn-houses,  hen- 
houses, the  dairy,  the  smoke-house,  and  the  kitchen; 
and  so,  like  a  veritable  Jack-o'-lantern,  with  a  nappy 
head,  that  resembles  a  diseased  chestnut  burr  or  part 
of  the  top  of  an  old  hair  trunk,  leads  you  up  to  the 
house  itself. 

There  the  native  Virginian,  with  a  Powhatan  pipe 
in  his  mouth  and  a  silver  spectacle-case  in  his  hand, 
awaits  you,  and  asks  you  to  "light"  and  "come  in" 
in  the  same  breath.     While  a  negro  boy  is  running 

52 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

up  from  the  "new  ground"  to  take  your  horse,  a 
mulatto  girl  is  flying,  with  a  pail  on  her  head,  to  the 
spring  for  fresh  water  and  a  jug  of  milk.  Two  or 
three  little  negroes  are  chasing  the  chickens  whose 
necks  are  soon  to  be  twisted  or  chopped  off  with  an 
axe  at  the  wood-pile;  ham  is  being  sliced,  eggs  are 
frying  in  the  frying-pan,  a  hoe-cake  is  on  the  fire,  an- 
other head  of  cabbage  is  thrown  into  the  pot,  somebody 
is  sheeting  the  bed  upstairs,  and  (before  your  leggings 
are  off)  the  case-bottle  is  at  your  elbow,  and  the  native 
Virginian  has  taken  possession  of  you,  as  if  you  were 
the  Prodigal  Son  or  the  last  number  of  the  Richmond 
Enquirer. 

Meantime  your  arrival  has  produced  an  excitement 
among  the  small  Ebo-shins,  as  you  will  discover  the 
first  time  you  step  out  into  the  yard.  A  number  of 
wild,  black  eyes  are  intently  watching  you  through 
the  panels  of  the  fence,  and  the  conversation  which 
ensues  on  your  appearance  shows  the  estimation  in 
which  "Ole  Marster,"  as  the  native  Virginian  is  called, 
is  held  by  his  young  barbarians. 

"I  lay  you  what  you  dar,"  says  one,  "dat  dat  ar 
man  come  all  de  way  from  way  down  yarnder,  clean 
to  Rich'um." 

"I  lay,"  says  another,  "dat  he  war  two  par  of 
gallowses — don'  you  saw  de  strops  on  his  britchis?" 

"I  spec,"  says  a  third,  "dat  ar  man  mighty  rich. 
I  spec  he  got  bofe  pockits  full  o'  fopunsapunnies, 
and  he  gwine  gin  me  two  un  'um." 

"Shuh!"  replied  a  sage  little  gizzard-foot;  "shuh! 
y'all  ain't  talkin'  'bout  nuthin'  'tall.     Ole  Marster  he 

53 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

de  richest  man  in  de  worP.  Ole  Mars'  kin  buy  a 
hom'ny  mortar  full  o'  dat  ar  man  'thout  nuvver  payin' 
fur  'um,  an'  den  forgit  it,  'fore  dat  ar  man  know  it!" 

We  will  not  stop  to  describe  his  old  weather-boarded 
often  wainscoted,  house,  with  its  queer  old  furniture 
and  its  old  family  portraits,  which  indicate  for  Jeems 
Jimmison  or  his  wife  a  better  origin  than  his  name 
would  lead  you  to  expect.  One  peculiarity,  though, 
must  not  go  unmentioned.  No  matter  how  small  this 
house  is,  it  is  never  full.  There  is  always  room  for 
one  more  in  it;  and,  on  special  occasions,  such  as  a 
wedding  or  a  Christmas  frolic,  the  number  of  feather 
beds,  straw  beds,  shuck  beds,  pallets,  and  shakedowns 
which  this  old  house  produces  is  literally  incredible. 
To  feed  and  lodge,  if  need  be,  the  entire  State  is  not  a 
point  of  honor  with  Coonrod,  but  a  matter  of  course — 
no  other  idea  ever  entered  his  head.  What  is  called 
"hospitality"  by  other  folks  is  with  him  so  much  a  part 
of  his  nature  that  he  has  no  name  for  it  (unless  he 
keeps  an  "Entertainment"),  and  he  never  uses  the 
word.  How  he  managed,  on  a  worn-out  estate,  to  re- 
peat, as  it  were,  the  miracle  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  is 
a  mystery  which  must  be  charged,  I  fear,  to  the  "bar- 
barism of  slavery,"  for  the  art  of  feeding  and  lodging 
everybody  seems  already  to  be  passing  away. 

Nor  can  we  stop  to  describe  the  good  wife  of  the 
native  Virginian,  with  her  check  apron,  key-basket, 
and  knitting  sheath — the  pattern  of  domestic  virtue; 
a  matron,  compared  with  whom  the  Roman  matron, 
so  famed,  is  as  inferior  as  paganism  is  to  the  religion 
of  our  Saviour;  the  hardest-worked  slave  on  the  estate 

54 


BACON  AND  GREENS 

— toiling,  as  she  does,  from  year  to  year  and  year  after 
year,  for  every  human  being,  black  and  white,  male 
and  female,  young  and  old,  on  the  plantation,  and 
yet  a  Christian  gentlewoman,  refined,  tender,  pure — 
almost  too  good  and  pure  for  earth.  Think  what 
she  has  done  for  Virginia!  Think,  too,  that,  under  the 
new  order  of  things,  she  also  may  be  passing  away. 
Of  all  the  sad  things  which  press  upon  us  in  these 
troubled  days,  there  is  none  so  sad  as  this;  no,  not  one. 
For  without  the  Virginia  matron  there  is  no  longer  any 
Virginia;  and  without  Virginia,  what,  to  Virginians,  is 
this  world?     Let  us  hasten  away  from  the  thought. 

In  like  manner,  we  must  hasten  away  from  Larkin's 
sons  and  daughters;  the  former  brave  and  wild — 
destined  to  run  much  their  father's  course;  the  latter 
unaccountably  pretty,  spirited,  and  cultivated.  If  it 
be  a  matter  of  wonder  how  Mrs.  Coonrod  manages 
to  get  up  such  marvellous  breakfasts  and  dinners  out 
of  her  dingy,  dirt-floored  kitchen,  still  more  wonder- 
ful are  the  girls  whom  she  raises  in  her  "shakledy" 
old  house,  ten  miles  from  anywhere,  and  entirely  out 
of  the  world.  We  cannot  spare  the  time  to  praise 
the  boys  and  girls — the  noble  products  of  a  social 
system  which  mankind  has  united  to  put  down — for 
the  native  Virginian,  as  we  now  find  him,  is  almost 
entirely  alone,  his  family  being  scattered  far  and  wide — 
all  married  and  thriving,  except  one  "black  sheep," 
who  has  taken  to  drink,  to  fiddling,  and  to  shrouding 
everybody  in  the  neighborhood  who  dies. 

In  person,  the  old  man  is  above  the  medium  height, 
"dark-complected,"    spare    built    and    generally    long 

55 


BACON   AND   GREENS 


and  lean  in  the  lower  limbs, — and  that's  the  reason 
he  rides  a  horse  so  well.  His  voice  is  loud,  owing  to 
a  habit  he  has  of  conversing  familiarly  with  the  hands 
in  the  field  about  a  mile  and  a  half  off.  His  vision 
is  wonderfully  acute — partly  from  long  practice  with 
the  rifle,  and  partly  from  the  custom  of  inspecting 
his  neighbors'  vehicles  at  incredible  distances.  If  he 
live  on  the  side  of  the  road,  you  will  see  him  on  Sunday 
eying  a  cloud  of  dust  on  the  remote  horizon.  "  Jeems," 
he  will  say  to  his  son;  "Jeems,  ain't  that  old  Peter 
Foster's  carryall?"  "Yes,"  says  Jeems,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation;  "and  I'll  be  dad-shim'd  if  that  off 
mule  has  been  shod  yit."  His  accent  is  as  broad  as 
the  nose  of  his  blackest  negro.  He  says  "thar"  and 
"whar,"  "upstars"  and  "down  in  the  parster,"  talks 
about  "keepin'  a  appintment,"  not  next  year,  but 
"another  year,"  when  he  expects  to  raise  "a  fine 
chance  uv  curcumbers"  in  the  "gearden,"  and  a 
"tollibly  far  crap  o'  tubbarker."  If  he  is  a  tidewater 
man,  he  does  not  say  "chance,"  but  "charnce,"  and, 
instead  of  saying  the  "  har"  of  the  head,  he  says  "  heyar." 
If  he  eats  cornfield  peas  much,  he  becomes  a  virulent 
Virginian,  and  caps  the  climax  of  bad  English  by  some 
such  expression  as  "me  and  him  was  a-gwine  a-fishin'." 
This  he  does,  not  for  the  lack  of  knowledge,  but  partly 
because  he  loves  to  talk  as  unlike  a  Yankee  as  possible, 
partly  because  he  "don'  keer"  particularly  about  his 
language  or  anything  else,  except  his  political  and 
religious  opinions,  and  mainly  because  he  is  entirely 
satisfied  (as,  indeed,  all  Virginians  are)  that  the  English 
is  spoken  in  its  purity  nowhere  on  this  earth  but  in 

56 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

Virginia.  "Tharfo'  "  he  "kin  affode"  to  talk  "jest" 
as  he  "blame  chooses." 

His  individuality,  his  independence  and  indifference 
to  matters  on  which  other  people  set  great  store,  is 
shown,  not  only  in  his  pronunciation,  but  in  his  dress 
— you  see  it  in  the  tie  of  his  cravat,  the  cut  of  his  coat, 
the  fit  of  his  waistcoat,  the  set  of  his  pantaloons,  the 
roaching  of  his  hair,  and  the  color  of  his  pocket-hand- 
kerchief— a  red  bandanna  with  yellow  spots.  But  the 
whole  character  of  the  man  is  fully  told  only  when 
you  come  to  open  his  "secretary."  There  you  will  find 
his  bonds,  accounts,  receipts,  and  even  his  will,  jabbed 
into  pigeon-holes  or  lying  about  loose  in  the  midst  of 
a  museum  of  powder-horns,  shot-gourds,  turkey-yelpers, 
flints,  screws,  pop-corn,  old  horseshoes  and  watermelon 
seed. 

How  such  a  man,  with  such  a  "secretary,"  can  suc- 
ceed in  life,  and  how,  above  all,  he  and  the  like  of  him 
contrived  to  play  the  part  which  they  have  played  in 
the  history  of  this  country,  is  something  to  be  accounted 
for  only  on  the  bacon-and-greens  principle. 

Since  the  first  settlement  at  Jamestown,  when  the 
hogs  increased  so  fast  that  the  town  had  to  be  palisaded 
in  order  to  keep  them  out,  Virginians  have  been  well 
spoken  of;  but  of  late,  and  since  the  downfall  of  the  old 
Commonwealth,  praise,  in  some  quarters,  had  been 
lavish.  Is  it  on  the  principle,  De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum, 
and  because  it  is  thought  that  Virginians  are  soon  to  be 
numbered  among  the  races  which  have  perished?  I 
trust  not.  But  hear  what  has  been  said  of  them  by  a 
Northern  orator — the  Hon.  Henry  Clay  Dean,  of  Iowa: 

57 


BACON   AND   GREENS 

"I  dare  speak  one  kind  word  for  the  oppressed  in 
the  very  teeth  of  the  oppressor.  Since  Adam  took 
possession  of  Eden,  no  part  of  his  heritage  has  given 
to  man  such  an  hundred  years  of  history  as  that  of 
Virginia,  beginning  with  the  public  life  of  George 
Washington,  and  ending  with  the  surrender  of  the 
armies  of  Gen.  Robert  E.  Lee.  The  great  orator, 
Patrick  Henry,  whose  spirit  lifted  up  the  first  revo- 
lution, and  whose  persuasive  voice  called  armies  up 
the  valleys  and  down  from  the  mountains  to  defend 
New  York,  New  Jersey,  and  Massachusetts  from  the 
invader's  hoof,  was  a  Virginian.  George  Washington, 
who  led  those  armies,  was  a  Virginian.  Thomas  Jef- 
ferson, whose  great  soul  encompassed  the  world  and 
lifted  its  light  upon  a  benighted  age  to  teach  it  liberty, 
was  a  Virginian.  James  Madison,  who  environed  our 
rights  by  a  flame  of  living  fire,  which,  in  the  most  illus- 
trious periods  of  the  past  and  present  century,  preserved 
unharmed  all  that  was  sacred  in  life  and  precious  in 
hope — the  Constitution  of  the  United  States, — was  a 
Virginian.  John  Marshall,  whose  luminous  mind, 
guided  by  immutable  justice,  gave  being  to  a  most  pro- 
found and  comprehensive  judiciary,  the  bulwark  of 
American  institutions,  was  a  Virginian.  Henry  Clay, 
whose  commanding  soul  drew  after  him  one  full  half 
of  the  whole  moral  and  intellectual  power  of  America, 
was  a  Virginian.  The  Lees — Richard  Henry,  Arthur 
Francis  Lightfoot,  Light-Horse  Harry,  and  his  illus- 
trious son,  Robert  Edmund  Lee,  were  Virginians. 
Thomas  J.  Jackson,  the  great  military  genius  of  the 
western    hemisphere,   was    a   Virginian.     The   courts 

58 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

and  the  legislatures,  the  forums,  and  the  pulpits  of 
every  State  in  the  Union,  and  of  every  government 
on  the  continent,  have  been  adorned  by  Virginians. 
Their  blood,  shed  in  noble  defence  of  liberty,  has 
fattened  every  valley,  and  their  bones  have  bleached 
on  every  mountain,  from  Bunker  Hill  to  the  City  of 
Mexico." 

I  can  imagine  Larkin's  smile  as  he  reads,  or  hears 
read,  these  compliments.  He  is  simple-minded  and 
easily  flattered;  but — the  sop  comes  a  little  too  late. 
We,  who  know  him  better,  have  no  flattery  to  bestow 
on  him;  on  the  contrary,  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
we  can  but  pronounce  him  as  great  a  bundle  of  infirm- 
ities, crotchets,  and  vices  as  was  ever  put  together. 
I  say  "vices."  Does  he  not  chew  homespun  tobacco 
inordinately  and  spit  promiscuously?  Does  he  not 
neglect  to  keep  a  set  of  books,  and  care  more  about 
giving  good  dinners  than  saving  money?  Was  he 
not,  in  former  times,  in  the  habit  of  whipping  his 
negroes  as  often,  almost,  as  his  own  children  ?  Did  he 
not  cherish  the  vile  political  heresy  of  State-rights,  and, 
in  his  childish  ignorance,  proclaim  the  absurd  proposi- 
tion that  Virginia,  free  and  sovereign,  antedated  the 
Constitution,  and,  with  her  sister  sovereigns,  gave  that 
Constitution  all  the  power  it  possessed  ?  Was  he  not  a 
heretic  in  religion  as  well  as  in  politics,  and  ever  ready 
to  maintain  that  the  pulpit  is  no  place  for  "Lessons  of 
the  Hour,"  and  for  the  worship  of  national  ensigns? 
Finally,  instead  of  preaching,  did  he  not  practise  the 
doctrine,  "Do  unto  others  as  you  would  be  done  by," 
and  hold  that  it  was   ungentlemanly    to    cheat,    and 

59 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

wrong  even  to  tell  lies  and  to  steal  ?     For  the  life  of  me, 
I  do  not  see  how  you  are  to  flatter  such  a  man. 

As  for  the  crotchets  of  the  native  Virginian,  they  are 
no  great  matter.  He  will  have  his  pets — his  blooded 
mare,  his  favorite  pointer,  his  pack  of  hounds,  his 
game  rooster,  "Dominicker"  hen,  "cropper-crown" 
pullet,  muscovy  drake,  and  a  little  lame  negro,  who 
lights  his  pipe  with  a  coal  of  fire  from  the  kitchen  and 
pats  "Juba"  for  him.  But  the  most  curious  of  his 
whims  (and  one  which  is  somewhat  rare  among  native 
Virginians)  is  a  deadly  hatred  of  liquor  in  all  of  its 
forms;  an  exceedingly  strange  whim  indeed,  you  will 
admit,  and  one  which,  as  I  have  observed,  is  generally 
accompanied  by  preposterous  vagaries  about  the  virtues 
of  blood-root,  puccoon-root,  "jimson"  weed,  white-oak 
bark,  dog-wood,  wild-cherry,  Indian-turnip,  and  wake- 
robin. 

Notions  like  these  may  be  tolerated,  but  who  can 
bear  the  cabbage-head  weakness  of  a  man  who  will 
not  consult  his  own  interests  before  all  other  interests; 
will  concern  himself  about  politics  when  he  ought  to 
be  inventing  a  new  method  of  making  doughnuts  out  of 
free-love,  and  looking,  philanthropically,  after  the  moral 
and  intellectual  welfare  of  the  man  in  the  moon ;  and  who 
is  so  incurably  conservative  that  he  won't  fill  up  the 
mud-puddle  in  front  of  his  gate,  won't  mend  the  lock 
on  his  back  door,  or  whitewash  his  worm-fences,  or 
paint  his  crank-sided  carriage-house,  or  clean  the  teeth 
of  his  cattle  with  Sozodont,  or  dress  his  field-hands  in 
duplex-elliptic  hoop-skirts?  What  are  we  to  think  of 
such  a  man? 

60 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

"A  blunder,"  says  Fouchet,  "is  worse  than  a  crime," 
and,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  the  native  Virginian 
is  a  mass  of  blunders.  "  A  persistent  course  of  murder," 
according  to  De  Quincey,  "will  inevitably  end  in  pro- 
crastination"— the  worst  of  crimes;  and  procrastination 
is  the  grand  characteristic  of  the  native  Virginian.  He 
will  not  do  to-day  what  can  be  done  to-morrow,  or  do 
to-morrow  what  can  be  put  off  till  the  next  day;  no,  not 
though  the  whole  world  of  prompt  business  men  get 
ahead  of  him — not  though  the  heavens  fall  and  the 
lightnings  descend  and  put  out  the  other  eye  of  his 
one-eyed  calf. 

How  such  a  man,  so  faulty,  so  simple-minded,  so 
warm-hearted,  so  open-handed,  and  so  what  the  world 
calls  "lazy,"  succeeded  in  playing  the  part  which  he 
has  played  in  history  and  exerted  so  powerful  an  in- 
fluence in  the  government  of  this  country,  is,  I  re- 
peat, a  marvel  which  can  be  explained  only  on  the 
bacon-and-greens  hypothesis  which  I  have  broached. 
Look  at  the  firm,  tawny  skin  of  his  face,  and  if  you 
are  not  reminded  of  pork  about  four  days  old,  then 
your  eyes  must  be  even  weaker  than  my  own.  Heaven 
defend  me  from  irreverence,  but  I  confess  I  never 
look  at  the  august  portrait  of  the  father  of  his  country 
without  thinking  of  jowl  and  turnip  "sallet."  And 
that  our  fathers  loved  bacon  and  greens  is  proved  by 
the  fact  that  Chief-Justice  Marshall,  dining  one  day 
with  Nicholas  Biddle,  had  his  plate  changed  five  times, 
and  each  time  insisted  on  being  helped  to  bacon  and 
greens.  In  the  nature  of  things,  it  must  be  a  fact  that 
Stonewall  Jackson  was  raised  on  the  best  family-cured 

61     • 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

hams.  How  else  could  he  have  trotted  his  "foot- 
cavalry"  so  rapidly  up  and  down  the  Valley?  I  know 
that  Joe  Johnston  loved  good  bacon,  because  he  was 
born  in  Prince  Edward,  not  very  far  from  Farmville. 
Jubal  Early,  judging  from  his  manly  letters  while  in 
exile,  must  have  been  raised  entirely  on  chine — back- 
bone. 

As  for  Robert  E.  Lee,  there  is  a  story  in  De  Fon- 
taine's "Marginalia"  to  the  effect  that,  during  the 
latter  part  of  the  war,  General  Lee  lived  exclusively  on 
cabbage  boiled  in  salt-water,  and  allowed  himself  the 
luxury  of  middling  only  twice  a  week.  One  day, 
while  in  camp,  he  invited  a  number  of  distinguished 
guests  to  dine  with  him.  When  the  table  was  set, 
behold  a  great  pile  of  cabbage  and  a  piece  of  middling 
about  as  big  as  the  palm  of  your  hand.  Out  of  polite- 
ness, the  guests  all  declined  middling.  Next  day  the 
general  called  for  it.  "Marse  Robert,"  said  his  ser- 
vant; "Marse  Robert,  de  fac'  is,  dat  ar  was  borrid 
middlin',  an'  I  done  'turn'd  it  to  de  man  whar  I  borrid 
it  fum."  General  Lee  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  disap- 
pointment, and  pitched  into  his  cabbage. 

That's  the  story,  and  a  great  many  people  don't 
believe  it.  I  do;  every  word  of  it;  especially  the  part 
about  the  cabbage.  But  I  will  tell  you  a  story  about 
General  Lee  worth  two  of  that,  and  one  which  is  true; 
for  I  got  it  from  an  officer  who  heard  General  Lee  tell 
it  on  the  very  day  of  its  occurrence. 

"Not  long  after  the  surrender,  a  soldier,  ragged, 
haggard,  and  dirty,  rang  at  General  Lee's  door  and 
called  for  the  general.     He  was  shown  into  the  parlor, 

•    62 


BACON   AND   GREENS 

and,  in  a  few  moments,  General  Lee  came  in.  '  Gene- 
ral,' said  he,  standing  up  as  General  Lee  entered,  'I'm 
one  of  your  soldiers,  just  from  Point  Lookout.'  The 
general  shook  him  cordially  by  the  hand.  'And  I've 
come  here,'  he  went  on,  'as  the  representative  of  four  of 
my  comrades,  who  are  too  ragged  and  dirty  to  venture 
to  see  you.  We  are  all  Virginians,  General,  from  Roa- 
noke County,  and  they  sent  me  here  to  see  you  on  a 
little  business.'  He  paused  a  moment,  and  continued. 
'They've  got  our  President  in  prison'  (here  the  large 
tear-drops  rolled  slowly  down  his  hollow  cheeks),  'and 
— now — they — talk  about  ar — resting — you.'  His  voice 
here  fairly  broke  into  a  sob.  'And,  General,  we  can't 
stand,  we'll  never  stand,  and  see  that.'  His  sunken 
chest  heaved  convulsively;  but,  choking  down  his  sobs, 
and  with  his  eyes  still  wet,  he  continued  his  little  ad- 
dress. 'Now,  General,  we  five  men  have  got  about 
two  hundred  and  fifty  acres  of  land  in  Roanoke — very 
good  land,  too,  it  is,  sir, — and,  if  you'll  only  come  up 
there  and  live,  I've  come  to  offer  you  our  land,  all  of  it, 
and  we  five  men  will  work  as  your  field-hands,  and 
you'll  have  very  little  trouble  in  managing  it  with  us 
to  help  you.'  Still  speaking  through  his  tears,  he  kept 
on.  'And,  General,  there  are  near  about  a  hundred 
of  us  left  in  old  Roanoke,  and  they  could  never  take 
you  there,  for  we  could  hide  you  in  the  hollows  of  the 
mountains,  and  the  last  man  of  us  would  die  in  your 
defence.' 

"General  Lee  was  affected  to  tears  by  the  great- 
hearted generosity  and  devotion  of  this  noble  soldier  and 
his  companions,  but  was  compelled  to  decline  his  offer. 

63 


BACON   AND   GREENS 

"Still,  the  Roanoke  hero  would  not  give  it  up. 
With  a  great  deal  of  delicacy,  he  intimated  that  the 
ladies  of  General  Lee's  family  would  lack  society  on  a 
lonely  mountain  farm,  but  said  that  the  Springs  were 
hard-by,  and  that,  out  of  the  proceeds  of  the  farm, 
General  Lee  and  his  family  could  afford  to  spend  all 
their  summers  there,  and  thus  find  the  society  which 
those  devoted  'field-hands'  did  not  dare  to  offer. 

"But  General  Lee  was  still  forced  to  decline.  Never- 
theless, he  would  not  allow  the  brave  fellow  to  depart 
until  he  was  better  clad  than  when  he  came  in. 
Scanty  as  was  our  great  chieftain's  wardrobe  at  that 
time,  he  insisted  on  sharing  it  with  the  Roanoke 
soldier." 

We  must  return  to  our  subject.  The  theme,  to  me, 
is  inexhaustible;  not  so  is  your  patience.  You  see  I 
have  spoken  of  the  native  Virginian  in  the  present 
tense,  not  in  the  past.  Thank  God!  I  can  do  so;  for 
the  native  Virginian  "still  lives."  An  impression  pre- 
vails that  this  great  original  will  soon  be  numbered 
with  the  brave  men  who  were  before  Agamemnon,  and 
that  he  is  passing  into  history  quite  unconsciously  to 
himself.  I  can  see  the  old  man  as  he  sits  by  his  de- 
serted hearth,  where  the  fire,  made  of  his  fence-rails 
(for  there  is  no  one  to  cut  wood  for  him),  is  dying  out. 
The  coffee-pot,  brought  by  the  one  faithful  servant, 
sets  on  the  "trivet"  as  of  yore;  but  the  purring  cat,  the 
little  negro  girls  picking  cotton,  the  clicking  needles  of 
the  comely  matron,  and  the  wide  circle  of  cheerful  sons 
and  daughters,  nephews  and  nieces,  with  the  welcome 
stranger,  are  gone.     Gone  are  the  heaped-up  logs  of 

64 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

hickory  and  the  roaring  flames,  which  once  widened 
that  family  circle  till  the  chairs  of  the  whispering  lovers 
touched  the  chamber  walls;  even  the  coals  under  the 
"trivet"  are  dead,  the  coffee  untasted,  and  the  single 
cake  of  corn-bread  on  the  table  is  forgotten. 

Poor  old  man!  The  night  is  bitter  cold,  but  he  sits 
by  the  dying  fire,  with  his  head  bowed  in  his  withered 
hands,  unconscious  of  the  cold.  The  tall  old  clock 
has  ceased  to  tick;  what  recks  he  of  the  time?  The 
negro-quarters  are  empty,  the  old  cook  is  asleep  in  the 
kitchen — there  is  not  a  living  soul  in  the  house  but 
himself.  Without,  the  icy  rain  is  pelting  pitilessly, 
and  the  winter  winds  are  sobbing  as  if  in  agony.  The 
empty  house  shakes  under  the  tread  of  the  tempest, 
and  there  are  ghostly  noises  in  the  lifeless,  chilly  rooms. 
Poor  old  man!  his  good  wife  has  not  survived  the  shock 
of  war;  his  daughters,  with  their  children,  have  fled  for 
safety  to  the  towns;  and  of  all  his  bold  sons,  not  one  is 
left — they  are  under  the  sod  at  Manassas,  at  Gettys- 
burg, at  Chickamauga. 

Poor  old  man!  Once  only  he  lifts  his  gray  head 
— to  look  through  the  window-panes,  blurred  by  the 
tears  of  the  wintry  rain.  Over  his  frozen  fields,  where 
no  crops  are  seeded  for  the  coming  year,  over  the  dead 
waste  of  his  neighbors'  fields,  over  forest  and  mountain, 
over  State  after  State,  the  vision  of  his  thought  ex- 
tends; and  in  all  that  space,  wide  as  a  continent,  he  sees 
naught  but  broken  and  deserted  households  like  his 
own,  plantations  devastated,  industry  destroyed,  masters 
impoverished,  and  servants  doomed  to  extinction — a 
benign  civilization  overthrown  by  one  rude  earthauake 

65 


BACON   AND   GREENS 

shock,  blasted  and  obliterated,  as  if  lightning  itself  had 
scorched  and  scathed  the  land. 

What  a  picture  for  his  dim  eyes,  weary  of  the  world, 
to  dwell  upon !  What  hope  for  him,  who  looks  out  upon 
this  wide-extended  scene  of  sorrow — thrice  sorrowful 
because  of  the  winter  storm,  thrice  sorrowful  still  be- 
cause of  the  contrast  with  the  plenteous,  joyous  days 
that  are  forever  gone — what  hope  for  him  but  in  the 
grave  ?  Better,  far  better,  that  he  should  be  gathered 
unto  his  fathers  ere  yet  the  more  evil  days  have  come. 
Poor  old  man! 

Poor  old  man!  Who  says  this?  Who  desires  to 
harrow  up  your  feelings  and  to  kindle  new  animosi- 
ties? My  friends,  the  middle-age  chronicles  tell  us, 
in  regard  to  the  wild  boar,  that  "what  place  soever  he 
biteth,  whether  on  man  or  dog,  the  heat  of  his  teeth 
causeth  an  inflammation  of  the  wound.  If,  therefore, 
he  doth  but  touch  the  hair  of  the  dog,  he  burnetii  it 
off;  nay,  huntsmen  have  tried  the  heat  of  his  teeth 
by  laying  hairs  on  them  as  soon  as  he  was  dead,  and 
they  have  shrivelled  up  as  if  touched  with  a  red-hot 
iron. 

Of  this  hot  and  touchy  nature  is  the  native  Virginian. 

Further  it  is  said  of  the  boar:  "He  hath  a  knack, 
when  stabbed,  of  running  up  the  shaft  of  the  spear, 
so  as  to  gore  his  slayer  even  in  his  own  death-pang." 
Am  I  treading  upon  dangerous  ground?  Be  not 
disturbed.  The  Virginian  is  not  going  to  run  up  the 
shaft  of  the  spear;  he  is  not  going  to  gore  his  slayer, 
for  he  is  not  going  to  be  slain.  Not  less  brave  than 
other  men,  he  nevertheless  objects  to  dying  while  there 

66 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

is  anything  left  to  live  for;  and  there  is  something  to 
live  for.  It  is  that  "fair  and  abounding  land"  which 
gave  him  and  his  children  birth,  and  which  is  now 
doubly  dear  because  of  the  infinitely  precious  blood 
which  has  moistened  and  hallowed  it  forever. 

Moreover,  the  Virginian  is  the  last  man  on  earth 
to  accept  commiseration.  Flatter  and  fool  him,  you 
may  easily;  but  pity  him,  never!  He  will  none  of  it. 
Pascal  tells  us  that  "pity  for  the  unfortunate  is  no 
proof  of  virtue;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  desirable  to 
make  this  demonstration  of  humanity,  and  to  acquire, 
at  no  expense,  the  reputation  of  tenderness.  Pity  there- 
fore, is  of  little  worth." 

The  Virginian,  possibly,  never  heard  of  Pascal;  but 
he  feels  this  in  his  heart,  and  he  scorns  your  pity. 
Lord  Halifax  says,  "Complaining  is  contempt  upon 
one's  self,"  and  therefore  the  Virginian  does  not  com- 
plain. He  accepts  the  issue  of  the  great  struggle, 
not  as  the  will  of  man,  but  as  the  will  of  Him  whom 
he  was  taught  to  reverence  and  obey  at  his  mother's 
knee.  He  was  brought  up  to  tell  the  truth,  and  to 
keep  his  word.  Now  that  the  hatchet  is  buried,  the 
Virginian  will  keep  the  troth  he  has  plighted  to  the 
General  Government.     Rest  assured  of  that. 

Remember,  moreover,  that  no  kind  of  live  stock  is 
so  easily  improved  as  the  hog  on  which  the  Virginian 
subsists,  none  so  readily  accommodate  themselves  to 
circumstances,  and  that  the  changes  produced  by  do- 
mestication and  civilization  are  permanent.  Remem- 
ber, too,  that  few  plants  are  so  hardy  as  the  cabbage, 
and  none  so  vastly  improved  by  transplanting.     (This 

67 


BACON  AND   GREENS 

is  the  secret  of  the  Virginian's  success  outside  of  his 
own  State.)  What  is  the  inevitable  influence?  It  is 
this:  The  Virginian  will  adapt  himself  to  the  new  order 
of  things;  he  will  master  the  situation;  and,  under  the 
stimulus  of  Progress,  with  a  big  P,  the  size  of  his  head 
(cabbage-head  though  it  may  be  deemed  by  his  foes) 
will  astonish  the  moral  agriculturists  of  all  Christendom 
— the  Captain  Wragges  of  Exeter  and  Faneuil  halls. 

He  loves  the  land  which  God  gave  him  as  a  heritage 
— loves  it  and  is  proud  of  it  a  thousand-fold  more 
than  ever.  But  he  will  not  oppose  Progress.  If  any- 
body wants  his  land,  he  will  sell  'em  a  "tract";  but 
he  will  retain  enough  to  raise  his  greens  and  give  his 
hogs  free  range,  so  as  to  keep  up  the  quality  of  his 
bacon.  He  will  welcome  immigrants  by  myriads  and 
without  fear,  because  he  knows  he  can  feed  them 
on  proper  food  and  turn  them  into  Virginians  with 
surprising  rapidity. 

In  his  changed  estate — his  servants  all  gone — he 
will  no  longer  be  able  to  board  and  lodge  the  whole 
world;  but  he  will  be  able  to  give  his  friends  a  hearty, 
old-fashioned  Virginia  welcome,  and  a  dish  of  real  old 
Virginia  "Bacon  and  Greens." 


68 


Ill 

MY  UNCLE  FLATBACK'S  PLANTATION 

A  RAMBLING  SUMMER  PIECE 

TI/'HEN  you  get  to  the  little  town  of  F ,  look 

out  of  the  car  window,  O  passenger  on  the  S 

side  railroad!  and  you  will  see  an  old  gentleman,  with 
a  long  knotty  staff  in  his  hand,  a  broad-brimmed  white 
wool  hat  on  his  head,  a  heavy  iron-gray  beard  on  his 
chin,  a  small  long-tail  black  coat,  out  at  elbows,  on  his 
back,  and  tow-linen  pantaloons  on  his  nether  extrem- 
ities— a  striking  object  in  the  large  motley  crowd  which 
swarms  around  the  depot  every  time  the  train  arrives. 
This  is  my  Uncle  Flatback,  come  to  town  to  get  the 
mail  and  take  notes  of  every  man  who  enters  the 
bar-room,  in  the  basement  of  that  commodious  tavern 
you  see  across  the  way.  A  remarkable  man  is  old 
Flatback — "Uncle  Jeems,"  or,  in  that  negro  dialect 
which  Virginians  so  delight  in,  "Unc'  Jim" — as  he  is 
generally  called,  for  short.  Do  you  wish  to  know 
more  of  him?  You  will  get  out  of  the  cars,  follow 
the  railroad  track  through  the  Deep  Cut,  over  the 
Buffalo  Bridge,  and  along  the  great  embankment,  until 
you  come  to  a  persimmon-tree  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  road.     Looking  to  the  south,  you  catch  a  glimpse 

69 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

of  a  house  embosomed  in  trees,  with  stables  and  other 
out-houses  close  by.  That  is  the  Flatback  mansion, 
dubbed  Mountain  View,  from  the  circumstances  that 
the  blue  knob  of  a  mountain,  in  an  adjacent  county, 
is  visible  from  the  premises. 

I  am  sure  you  will  like  Uncle  Flatback's  house 
and  yard — the  former  is  so  cool  and  roomy,  the  lat- 
ter so  level,  green,  and  shady.  Indeed,  there  are  two 
houses,  an  old  and  a  new  one,  joined  by  a  covered 
passage,  with  folding  doors,  which  when  thrown  wide 
open,  in  the  summer  time,  turn  the  passage  into  a 
porch — the  most  delightful  part  of  the  house;  for  the 
breeze  is  always  blowing  there.  The  old  house  is 
charming,  I  think.  It  is  only  a  story  and  a  half  high, 
and  is  built  in  that  solid,  honest  way  which  was  the 
rule  everywhere  in  Virginia  before  the  new-fangled, 
flimsy,  slazy  style  of  the  Yankees  was  introduced. 
The  chimneys  are  in  one  corner  of  the  rooms,  and 
being  big,  old-fashioned,  triangular  fellows — enough 
bricks  in  one  of  them  to  make  a  modern  house — one 
chimney  answers  for  half  a  dozen  rooms,  if  need  be; 
consequently  the  rooms  are  five-sided  instead  of  square 
— which  pleases  me  mightily,  because  it  is  Virginian, 
and  smacks  of  the  old  days.  If  ever  I  build  a  house, 
I  shall  pattern  after  the  old  Virginia  style.  Hang  your 
model  cottages — your  suburban  villas — your  Hudson 
River  contraptions;  I'd  as  soon  eat  codfish  chowder 
and  cold  bread,  or  subscribe  to  a  Yankee  newspaper, 
as  live  in  one  of  them. 

There  are  four  rooms  below,  including  the  dining- 
room,  and  two  above  stairs,  in  the  old  house.     Uncle 

70 


MY   UNCLE    FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

Flatback  inhabits  the  room  next  to  the  little  back 
porch,  which  looks  toward  the  kitchen,  the  negro 
quarters,  the  corn-house,  and  the  stable.  His  door 
is  never  locked  from  one  year's  end  to  another.  It  is 
true,  there  are  two  double-barrel  guns  and  a  rifle  in 
the  corner  by  the  wardrobe,  but  they  are  never  loaded, 
except  when  a  crow  or  a  hawk  comes  near  the  house, 
and  as  the  old  load  has  always  to  be  drawn — lightning 
would  hardly  explode  it — before  the  new  one  is  put 
in,  you  may  judge  in  what  danger  thieves,  feathered 
or  unfeathered,  stand  at  Mountain  View.  The  back 
porch,  facing  east,  receives  the  first  rays  of  the  morning 
sun,  and  is  shady  nearly  all  day;  hence  it  is  a  favorite 
resort  of  mine,  though  I  am  generally  in  the  way,  for 
there  is  always  some  household  business  going  on  here 
— some  slicing  of  curcumbers  (call  'em  fcewcumbers? 
Never!),  shelling  of  peas,  washing  of  butter,  or  rinsing 
(I'd  rather  say  rensing,  yea,  even  renching,  if  you  will 
allow  me)  of  things.  But  I  love  to  see  people  slice 
curcumbers  and  shell  peas.  Then  it  is  so  pleasant  to 
be  where  you  can  see  dinner  coming  in — where  the 
dishes  are  stopped  on  the  way  and  fixed  up— more 
butter  put  in  the  beets,  a  little  more  pepper  in  the  stew, 
and  so  on. 

I  have  a  passion  for  porches.     To  me,  a  porch  is 

A  thing  of  beauty — a  joy  forever, 

except  in  very  cold  weather.  If  I  had  the  building 
of  a  house,  I  would  make  it  mostly  of  porches,  upper 
and  lower,  with  a  room  or  so  hung  here  and  there  on 
a  nail  driven  into  the  pillars.     Had  I  been  unfortunate 

71 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

enough  to  have  lived  in  the  days  of  the  ancients,  I 
would  have  kept  a  stoa — not  that  I  have  any  mercantile 
talent — and  talked  philosophy  and  "High  Die"  against 
the  best  of  them,  with  my  heels  on  the  "bannisters" 
and  a  pipe  in  my  mouth.  If  Socrates  had  come  fooling 
after  me,  trying  to  trap  me,  I  would  have  told  him  I 
was  a  hardshell  Baptist,  given  him  a  chew  of  tobacco, 
and  requested  him  to  behave  himself.  But  I  wouldn't 
give  a  white-bone  button  to  have  lived  in  the  days 
when  the  domestic  negro  and  fried  chicken,  with  plenty 
of  creamy  gravy  and  a  few  sprigs  of  fresh  parsley  were 
unknown.  The  Greek  is  a  fine  language,  but  I  prefer 
Virginian.  It  has  no  aorist,  no  middle  voice,  and  other 
woes  to  the  early  getter-by-heart.  A  Virginian  can  say 
what  he  has  got  to  say  without  regard  to  grammar — 
that  vile  infraction  of  the  Bill  of  Rights  and  the  liber- 
ties of  the  people.  I  contend  that  freedom  of  speech  is 
possible  only  in  Virginia. 

Then  again,  I  couldn't  have  gone  the  ancient  costume. 
It  is  picturesque,  does  well  for  marble,  and  for  his- 
torical paintings  in  oil,  but  it  is  sadly  unfit  for  a  citizen 
of  Buckingham  or  Prince  Edward.  Imagine  a  man 
walking  through  a  new  ground,  or  a  ploughed  field, 
with  a  great  sheet  flapping  at  his  calves.  He  would  feel 
worse  than  a  woman.  Consider  him  in  a  brier  patch. 
How  could  a  body  get  over  a  fence,  ride  a  horse,  or 
chase  a  hare,  say  nothing  of  climbing  for  coons?  In 
the  saddle,  my  breeches  have  a  grievous  tendency 
upward  anyway,  as  if  the  washerwoman  had  starched 
them  with  leaven;  what  on  earth  would  become  of  me 
in  a  toga?    I  would  show  ankles  higher  than  a  circus 

72 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

rider,  or  a  White  Sulphur  belle  dancing  the  German; 
.1  couldn't  bear  to  go  to  town  unless  the  people  would 
do  as  they  did  when  Queen  Godiva  rode  through  the 
streets  of  Coventry.  No,  you  painters  keep  your  grand 
historical  wardrobes;  give  me  a  straw  hat,  an  oznaburg 
shirt,  no  waistcoat,  tow-linen  pantaloons,  with  yarn 
"gallowses,"  home-made  cotton  socks  and  a  pair  of 
low-quarter  shoes,  moderately  thick-soled,  made  by 
Booker  Jackson. 

The  attic  rooms,  up  the  "little  stars,"  in  the  old 
house  are  delightful  to  sleep  in  when  the  summer  rains 
are  drumming  lullabies  with  their  soft  wet  knuckles  on 
the  mossy  shingles,  or  in  winter  when  the  icy  gusts 
suck  up  the  flames  from  the  deep  little  fireplace.  I 
know  not  why  it  is  that  attics,  with  their  sloping  ceilings 
and  little  windows  on  either  side  of  the  chimney, 

Where  the  sun  comes  peeping  in  at  morn, 

have  such  attraction  for  me.  Don't  let's  analyze 
feelings;  vivisections  are  so  horrid,  and  the  weather, 
to-day,  is  so  warm.  Who  can  trace  the  origin  of  ideas 
and  emotions,  when  the  thermometer  is  90°  in  the 
shade?  Who  can  be  a  metaphysician  with  a  fly  in 
the  burr  of  his  ear,  and  two  on  his  forehead  ?  Locke 
himself  couldn't.  Dear  reader,  you  know  what  a  coun- 
try—not a  hotel— attic  is.  The  very  name  brings 
back  the  days  of  childhood,  with  a  thousand  gentle 
memories,  which  we  may  hint  but  never  tell.  And  if 
you  have  ever  been  so  happy  as  to  lodge  in  an  attic 
tenanted  by  a  young  lady,  who  makes  way  for  you 
because  the  house  is  small,  or  the  guests  are  many,  then 

73 


MY  UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

memories  brighter  than  any  of  childhood  are  yours  for- 
ever, and  thenceforth  attics  are  sacred  in  your  eyes. 
My  good  fortune,  not  very  many  weeks  ago,  led  me  to 
a  little  upper  chamber  in  a  house  on  ground  which  has 
since  become  historical.  The  dormer-windows  of  that 
little  chamber  looked  out  upon  the  Chickahominy. 

A  feeling  of  awe  comes  over  the  sinner  as  he  vent- 
ures tremblingly  into  the  sanctuary  where  Sleep,  the 
good  old  nun,  keeps  watch  over  the  maiden  Virtue. 
He  puts  the  candle  upon  the  spotless  dressing-table 
and  stands  irresolute.  All  is  so  still — so  tidy  and 
orderly;  so  clean  and  fair;  so  sweet  and  pure.  Angels 
are  here.  He  sees  their  robes  in  the  curtains  of  the 
windows,  the  drapery  of  the  chaste  couch  and  the  dress- 
ing-table. What  shall  he  do  ?  How  dare  he  get  in  that 
bed?  The  pictures  on  the  wall  are  looking  at  him; 
the  mirror  is  a  great  big  glaring  eye.  ^Tiat!  disrobe 
here  ?  Not  he.  He  catches  sight  of  his  pale,  distressed 
face  in  the  looking-glass,  and  laughs  a  low  laugh  at 
himself.  Uneasy,  delighted  wretch.  He  wouldn't  be 
out  of  here  for  the  world,  but  he  don't  know  what  to  do. 
He  is  afraid  to  move,  lest  he  disarrange  or  knock  down 
something.  Finally,  after  much  cogitation  and  per- 
plexment,  he  thinks  it  will  be  no  harm  to  sit  down  in 
that  little  chair  in  the  corner,  and  steps  softly  toward 
it,  bumping  his  head  as  he  goes  along.  "Dear  me! 
what  low  chairs  ladies  do  use!"  A  view  of  the  whole 
room — half  in  shadow,  half  in  shine — pleases  him 
much.  He  contrasts  it  with  his  own  disorderly  bache- 
lor's den,  and  sighs.  One  by  one  he  takes  in  each 
separate  object,  marks  them  all  with  a  note  of  admira- 

74 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

tion,  and  at  length  fixes  his  eyes  permanently  on  not  the 
smallest  article  of  furniture  in  the  room.  Long  time 
he  broods  over  it,  his  blameless  thought 

Cozening  the  pillow  of  a  lawful  kiss. 

He  thinks  of  the  nest  of  some  white-winged  dove — 
the  shell  of  the  pearl  of  purest  ray  serene.  "Bless 
her  sweet  soul!"  ends  his  reverie,  and  up  he  rises, 
for  it  is  getting  late,  and  he  must  decide  upon  the 
course  he  shall  pursue  till  morning.  Grown  bolder, 
he  presumes  to  touch  the  little  bottles  of  Bohemian 
glass  on  the  toilet-table,  and  marvels  much  at  every- 
thing— deeming  womankind  wonderful  creatures  in 
all  their  ways,  and  envying  the  hardihood  of  those 
courageous  men  whose  brazen  and  impudent  nerves 
carry  them  unfalteringly  through  all  the  "masked 
batteries"  and  feminine  mysteries  which  surround 
and  terrify  him  here  at  dead  of  night.  He  takes  up 
tenderly,  as  if  they  were  so  many  infants,  the  books 
that  lie  on  the  dormer-window-sill,  reads  their  titles, 
approves  the  literary  taste  of  the  young  lady,  and 
lays  them  carefully  down  again,  exactly  as  they  were 
before  he  put  his  profane  hands  upon  them,  listen- 
ing the  while,  and  hoping  nobody  downstairs  hears 
him  fumbling  about;  for  now  it  is  very  late  indeed. 
The  candle  is  in  the  socket — he  must  do  something. 
What!  Ah!  now  he  has  it.  He  will  play  hench- 
man to  his  lady  love,  lie  down  outside  the  door,  and 
guard  her  chamber,  as  though  she  herself  were  sleep- 
ing there.  But  the  servant,  unacquainted  with  ro- 
mance, coming  in  the  morning  to  bring  fresh  water 

75 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

and  black  his  shoes,  and  finding  him  stretched  in  the 
passage  with  his  clothes  on,  will  declare  he  is  drunk. 
At  last,  his  candle  being  out,  he  remembers  that  he 
was  sent  here  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  accustomed  mode, 
and  praying  to  be  forgiven,  he  reclines  upon  the  out- 
ermost edge  of  the  dove's  nest,  yields  him  to  sweet 
fancies,  which  presently  become  dreams,  and  so — good 
night  to  him,  for  'tis  the  happiest  of  his  life. 

We  return  to  the  "little  stars"  which  lead  to  the 
attic  in  the  old  house  at  Mountain  View,  in  order  that 
we  may  notice  the  workmanship.  Here  is  admirable 
carpentry — joining  such  as  you  rarely  see  in  these  de- 
generate days,  and  material  unknown  to  our  impatient 
green-timber  times.  How  firm  the  steps  are  under- 
foot and  how  unworn,  although  they  have  been  in  daily 
use  full  half  a  century!  It  is  true  the  light-slippered 
feet  of  the  ladies  and  the  bare  soles  of  Ethiopian  and 
mulatto  maids  have  frequented  this  sturdy  little  stair- 
case, but  the  very  grain  of  the  wood,  polished  to  the 
neck-breaking  point,  shows  what  honest  workmen  our 
fathers  were. 

I  would  like  for  you  to  rest  a  moment  in  the  room  at 
the  foot  of  the  attic  staircase,  because  I  have  something 
to  tell  you.  There  is  nothing  in  this  room  to  attract 
attention,  except  a  red-cushioned  settee  and  one  of 
those  old-fashioned  combinations  of  bookcase,  desk, 
and  bureau,  which  are  becoming  so  rare.  When  I 
first  set  up  in  life— cetat  21,  as  M.D.— I  owned  one  of 
these  old  conveniences,  but  sold  it  in  less  than  a  year, 
like  a  fool.  How  I  could  have  managed  to  lug  the 
thing  about  with  me  in  my  manifold  wanderings,  sub- 

76 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

sequent  to  the  Esculapian  era,  it  is  impossible  to  say; 
but  if  ever  I  do  get  settled  in  a  country  home  I  intend 
to  have  a  "secretary" — what  a  fine  old  name! — at  the 
risk  of  my  life.  How  in  the  name  of  sense  is  a  country 
gentleman  to  get  along  without  a  secretary,  with  its 
endless  pigeon-holes  and  secret  drawers  to  keep  his 
shot-gourds,  powder-horns,  cap-boxes,  bonds,  accounts, 
and  odds  and  ends  of  everything  in,  I  should  like  to 
know?  Why  it  wouldn't  be  worth  a  man's  while  to 
have  a  son  without  a  "secretary"  to  unlock  for  him 
on  rainy  days,  as  a  special  and  very  great  favor:  nor 
would  there  be  any  place  to  hide  things  from  a  man's 
wife.  It  is  folly  to  expect  a  boy  to  entertain  proper 
respect  for  a  father  who  doesn't  own  a  "secretary" — 
that  wonderful  household  museum  and  arcanum  of 
manhood's  great  mysteries  and  treasures. 

But  about  the  little  room  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 
Listen. 

One  summer  night,  years  ago,  long  before  my  Uncle 
Flatback  ever  dreamed  of  living  here,  a  young  lady 
tripped  noiselessly  down  these  old  stair  steps,  then 
almost  new,  and  jumped  out  of  the  window.  The 
wheat,  heavy  with  dew,  was  growing  up  to  the  very 
walls  of  the  house,  and  lest  the  young  lady's  clothes 
might  get  wet,  an  obliging  young  gentleman  is  at  hand, 
to  receive  her  in  his  arms  and  carry  her  through  the 
wheat-field.  In  the  edge  of  the  woods,  some  hundred 
yards  off,  a  handsome  vehicle,  drawn  by  blooded 
horses,  is  waiting.  Round  go  the  wheels — off  fly  the 
young  couple  through  the  forest,  and  ere  the  morrow's 
sun  is  set,  they  are  in  North  Carolina,  married.     Very 

77 


MY   UNCLE    FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

fair  and  sweet  and  gentle  was  the  young  lady;  very 
brave  and  wild  was  her  lover — too  wild,  the  old  folks 
thought,  for  so  sweet  a  girl.  But  love  tamed  the  bold 
lover,  and  this  proved  the  happiest  of  runaway 
matches.  Many  sons  and  daughters  were  born  unto 
them,  and — rare  good  fortune  in  this  checkered  life! — 
all  of  them  crowned  their  parents  heads  with  honor. 
A  more  prosperous  and  respected  family  dwells  not 
within  the  limits  of  the  Commonwealth.  One  of  the 
sons  was  the  captain  of  our  company  at  Manassas — the 

sturdy  "Rifle  Grays"  of  L .      Brave  as  his  sire,  he 

rose  to  be  lieutenant-colonel  of  the  "gallant  Eleventh," 
and  now  lies  sick  of  a  severe  wound  received  in  the 
fierce  battle  of  the  Seven  Pines.  How  the  years  have 
sped  since  the  night  in  which  the  lovers  eloped  from 
this  old  house!  Many  years  have  come  and  gone  over 
the  sleeping  dust  of  the  maiden  who  leaped  out  of  that 
window.  I  remember  her  in  the  prime  of  womanhood, 
and  she  was  sweet  and  gentle  and  beautiful  then.  The 
snows  of  seventy  winters  lie  on  the  brow  of  the  bold 
lover,  but  the  fire  of  his  youth  is  not  spent,  and  he  is 
passing  the  evening  of  his  days  peacefully  away  in  the 
midst  of  his  children,  and  his  children's  children,  hon- 
ored and  beloved  by  all.  This  happy  romance  always 
repeats  itself  to  me  when  I  seat  myself  at  the  foot  of 
the  "little  stars,"  and  look  out  of  the  window,  and 
listen  to  the  summer  winds  sighing  through  the  leaves 
of  the  stout  aspen  which  has  grown  up  in  the  old  wheat- 
field,  now  a  verdant  yard. 

I  shall  not  detain  you  with  a  minute  description  of 
the  new  house,  which,  as  you  know,  is  joined  to  the  old 

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MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK7S   PLANTATION 

by  a  covered  passage.  It  is  a  more  pretentious  but 
far  less  substantial  edifice  than  its  humble  companion. 
On  the  ground-floor  there  is  a  high-pitched  parlor — 
what  has  become  of  all  the  "drawing-rooms"  we  used 
to  have  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  I  wonder  ? — and  over 
the  parlor  there  are  two  chambers,  also  high-pitched, 
and  above  them  a  sizable  garret.  So  you  see  this  mod- 
ern structure,  which  every  thunder-gust  shakes  to  its 
foundation,  is  tall  enough  to  look  down  with  contempt 
on  the  old  house.  But,  notwithstanding  the  disparity 
in  years  and  stature,  the  two  seem  to  get  along  very 
well  together.  The  hard,  mathematical  eye  of  a  Yan- 
kee would  be  offended  at  the  juxtaposition  of  so  uneven 
a  couple,  but,  thank  God!  we  in  Virginia  are  used  to 
these  incongruous  architectural  matches.  It  will  be  a 
sad  day  for  us  when  there  is  any  regularity  about  any- 
thing in  Virginia.  When  people  begin  to  build  houses 
"on  the  square,"  they  begin  to  calculate — or,  to  give 
the  word  its  idiomatic  meanness,  "cack'late" — and 
when  they  begin  to  "cack'late,"  they  begin  to  keep 
an  account  of  expenses — which  is  the  infallible  pre- 
monitory symptom  of  the  virus  of  Yankeeism  striking 
into  the  bone.  I  don't  want  to  live  among  no  sich 
people.  I  want  to  go  whar  I  kin  build  my  house  catty- 
cornered,  lop-sided,  slantingdicular,  bottom-upward, 
any  way  I  please,  and  have  no  correct  idea  about  noth- 
ing, 'cept  politics. 

The  glory  of  the  new  house  is  the  "big  room,"  up- 
stairs. This  spacious  chamber  boasts  four  great  win- 
dows which  reach  within  six  inches  of  the  floor — 
ventilation  in  perfection!     You  are  in  the  house  and 

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MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK's   PLANTATION 

out-of-doors  at  the  same  time;  may  see  everything, 
hear  everything,  and  feel  every  wind  that  blows.  On 
one  side  is  the  garden,  and  beyond  it,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away,  is  the  railroad;  which,  seen  in  profile,  looks 
like  the  key-board  of  an  interminable  piano-forte.  This 
railroad  is  great  company  for  us  at  Mountain  View. 
It  reminds  us  that  we  are  in  the  world  of  busy  life  and 
motion,  although  we  are  nestled  so  snugly  under  the 
locusts  that  you  can  hardly  see  us,  brave  soldiers, 
as  you  rush  to  the  wars.  It  affords  an  easy  path  to  the 
village,  and  brings  us  every  day  a  squad  of  convalescent 
soldiers,  who  walk  out  to  get  dinner  and  breathe  the 
pure  air.  We  are  never  tired  of  it.  A  locomotive 
under  a  full  head  of  steam  is  always  attractive.  Every 
time  a  train  passes,  we  all  get  up  to  look  at  it,  and,  if 
its  speed  is  at  all  rapid,  Uncle  Jim  seldom  fails  to  ex- 
claim, "I  George!  she's  a  goin'  uv  it." 

Through  the  window  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
big  room,  the  vision  is  led  down  the  sloping  fields  to 
the  "low  grounds,"  now  groaning  under  a  luscious 
load  of  watermelons,  muskmelons,  and  cantaloupes,  and 
thence  to  the  river,  whose  lines  of  beauty  are  traced 
by  masses  of  luxuriant  foliage,  so  thickly  do  the  trees 
and  clambering  vines  crowd  to  the  banks  to  drink  the 
life-giving  water,  all  muddy  as  it  is  during  half  the 
year.  Over  the  river  a  hill  mounts  boldly  up,  and 
on  its  top  a  white  house  is  perched,  like  a  castle  on  the 
Rhine.  Beyond  the  hill,  far  in  the  distance,  are  the 
knobs  of  the  mountain.  Almost  at  the  foot  of  that 
mountain,  the  father  of  Uncle  Flatback  used  to  live 
— a  Revolutionary  soldier,  seven  years  in  the  line — 

80 


MY   UNCLE    FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

concerning  whom  and  his  hapless  daughter,  Virginia, 
you  may  one  day  hear  more.  The  river  side  of  the 
big  upstairs  room  I  like  far  better  than  the  railroad 
side.  The  view  is  more  extensive,  more  varied,  rural, 
sequestered.  The  railroad  suggests  the  busy  world  and 
all  my  cares  away  yonder  in  the  city,  crowded  now 
with  thousands  on  thousands  of  sick  and  wounded, 
and  but  lately  delivered,  thank  God!  from  myriads  of 
besieging  Yankees.  Whereas  the  river,  rolling  under 
thick-boughed  trees,  brings  thoughts  of  freedom,  peace, 
seclusion,  the  delights  of  bathing  and  fishing  to  the 
mind.  Talking  about  fishing,  there  is  the  noblest 
beech,  the  best  place  for  fishing,  and,  sometimes,  the 
finest  fishing  in  this  little  muddy  river  that  heart  could 
wish.  I  wrote  a  piece  once  about  that  old  beech,  and 
the  fishing  frolics  I  have  enjoyed  while  reclining  on  its 
fantastic  roots,  equal  to  any  arm-chair,  and  under  its 
scanty  shade.  When  my  collected  works  are  printed, 
I  want  somebody  to  hunt  up  that  piece,  take  out  the 
nonsense  and  republish  it — for  there  are  some  good 
things  in  it,  I  think. 

But  it  is  not  for  the  peaceful  view  only  that  I  like  the 
river  side  of  the  big  room  so  well.  It  is  on  account  of  the 
trees — the  aspen  close  to  the  window,  and  the  sturdy 
oaks  that  tower  above  the  crank-sided  carriage-house 
just  outside  the  yard.  Oh,  me!  what  delight  to  lie 
by  the  window  during  the  listless,  midsummer  days, 
and  look  at  the  aspens,  all  in  a  flurry  of  delight,  and 
watch  the  lazy,  fleecy  clouds  far  up  in  the  blue  welkin. 
And  then  at  night  to  stretch  out  in  the  wide  bed,  or  on 
a  soft  pallet  down  on  the  floor,  close  by  the  window, 

81 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

and  look  up  at  the  stars  through  the  gently  moving 
branches,  and  listen  to  the  murmuring,  and  whispering 
of  the  leafy  creatures.  I  know  not  what  they  say,  but 
I  know  they  are  talking.  They  have  their  secrets — 
tales  of  the  old,  old  world,  of  the  "joyous  prime"  of 
Eden,  and  that  dread  time  when  this  planet  was  not 
ripe  for  man,  but  life  was  striving  up  to  him  through 
Nature's  every  manifestation. 

You  can't  teach  me  anything  about  trees.  I'm  ac- 
quainted with  'em;  have  known  'em  ever  since  I  was 
a  child,  and  used  to  spend  whole  days  with  'em  in  the 
woods.  I  tell  you  they  are  people.  Everybody  knows 
that  some  trees  are  tame  and  others  savage,  barbarous, 
half-civilized,  and  so  on.  Put  a  pine-tree  in  a  yard,  and 
what  does  he  look  like — how  does  he  feel?  He  looks 
out  of  place,  and  he  feels  embarrassed  and  mad,  just  as 
a  negro  field-hand  would  if  you  were  to  set  him  down 
in  a  parlor,  or  at  a  dinner-table  in  the  midst  of  white 
folks.  Whereas  an  aspen  or  a  locust  is  perfectly  at  home 
in  a  yard,  and  throws  out  his  arms  affectionately  toward 
the  house,  and  tries  his  best  to  put  a  hand  or  two  in 
at  the  window  and  pat  you  on  the  cheek  with  his 
leafy  fingers.  You  think  trees  have  got  no  soul,  no 
mind,  no  heart.  That's  because  you  have  got  no  soul 
yourself,  plague  on  you!  When  a  little  bird  hops  on 
a  twig,  and  begins  singing  as  if  he  was  singing  for 
wages,  the  tree  thrills  clean  down  to  his  toes  in  the 
ground.  So  when  the  rain  comes  to  fetch  water,  and 
the  winds  from  away  over  the  mountains  and  oceans 
come  to  tell  the  news,  can't  you  see  how  happy  the 
trees  are,  how  they  clap  their  hands  and  jump  up  and 

82 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

down,  and  get  bright  in  the  face,  and  actually  laugh  in 
the  sunshine  ?  If  you  can't  its  because  the  panes  in  the 
windows  of  your  soul  need  washing.  You  think  be- 
cause trees  can't  walk  they  are  an  inferior  order  of 
beings.  Well,  now,  if  you  think  a  bit,  ain't  you  too 
stuck  to  this  earth  ?  Why  don't  you  step  over  to  the 
next  star,  and  find  out  something  that  a  tree  don't 
know? 

Men  have  a  small  opinion  of  trees  because  their 
hearts  are  set  on  money,  stocks,  fame,  glory,  and  such 
trash;  but  boys  think  differently.  Boys  love  trees. 
They  love  to  play  with  them,  love  to  climb  them,  be- 
cause hugging  is  the  principal  part  of  climbing,  and  not 
the  least  portion  of  loving.  And  what's  the  reason 
boys  delight  so  to  ride  saplings?  Young  things  love 
to  play  with  each  other.  Do  the  saplings  enjoy  it? 
Enjoy  it!  Now,  look  here.  Do  you  want  to  provoke 
me  to  death?  Did  you  ever  ride  a  sapling?  Well, 
then  you  have  noticed  that,  after  you  have  done  riding, 
the  sapling  bends  over  for  days  and  days.  A  man  of 
sense  would  tell  you  the  sapling  continued  to  lean  over 
because  the  "woody  fibre,"  elasticity,  etc.,  etc.,  and 
scientific  so-forth.  I  know  better.  It's  no  such  a  thing. 
The  sapling  remains  in  the  stooping  posture  because 
he  thinks  a  game  of  leap-frog  is  going  on,  and  is  waiting 
for  the  next  boy  to  come  along;  and  having  a  long  time 
to  live  (provided  he  ain't  cut  down  to  make  a  ridge- 
pole of  a  hen-house,  or  a  roost  for  turkeys),  and  being 
mighty  patient  and  sweet-tempered  withal,  holds  on 
till  the  pain  in  his  back  compels  him  to  rise  up  again. 
Poor  things!     I  have  seen  'em  waiting  and  waiting 

83 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

for  days  and  days  after  the  boys  had  gone  off  and  for- 
got 'em.     It  makes  me  right  down  sorry  to  look  at  'em. 
Let  me  come  back  from  tree-talk  to  the  river  again — 
the  muddy  Appomattox — whose  waters  are  as  ugly  here 
as  its  name  is  picturesque.     It  sweeps  around  the  foot 
of  my  Uncle  Flatback's  plantation  in  a  wide,  irregular 
curve,  until  its  lines  of  dense  foliage  are  lost  to  the  view 
from  the  windows  of  the  room  "up  the  big  stars." 
There  is  a  wagon-way  which  runs  in  a  straight  line  by 
the  sweet-potato  patch  and  the  little  barn  down  to  the 
sandy  low-grounds,  which,  year  after  year,  bear  those 
copious  crops  of  watermelons,  muskmelons,  and  canta- 
loupes for  which  Mountain  View  is  famous.    Just  on  the 
river  bank  there  is  a  hut  of  pine  poles,  which  might 
be  taken  for  a  hen-house  if  it  were  not  so  far  away  from 
the  mansion  itself.     In  winter  time  you  might  puzzle 
your  brain  forever  to  find  the  use  of  this  hut;  but  in 
summer  the  protecting  lines  of  string,  stretching  from 
end  to  end  of  the  melon  patch,  and  the  numerous  scare- 
crows, made  out  of  Winston's  old  breeches  and  Polly's 
old  petticoats,  compel  you  to  the  just  inference,  viz.: 
that  it  is  the  guard-house  of  the  dusky  sentinels  who 
watch  over  the  precious  fruit  which  cumbers  the  ground 
hard  by.     'Lijah,  or  'Lijy,  poor  fellow!  before  he  died  in 
the  service  of  his  country— working  upon  the  fortifications 
around  Richmond — used  to  keep  watch  here;  but  John 
was  always  Uncle  Flatback's  right-hand  man  in  all 
matters  pertaining  to  melons. 

Of  the  merits  of  the  Mountain  View  melons  I  can 
speak  by  experience,  having  eaten  them  a  thousand 
times,  more  or  less.     My  only  regret  is  that  I  can't 

84 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

eat  a  thousand  at  a  time.  You  know,  dear  reader, 
that  there  are  certain  occasions — deemed  very  sad  by 
wise  and  elevated  persons  unlike  ourselves — when  this 
mortal  nature  gets  the  better  of  us,  and  the  only  per- 
fect happiness  seems  to  be  in  the  unlimited  indulgence 
of  our  animal  appetites.  Base,  very  base  are  we, 
when  these  sensual  seasons  overtake  and  master  us. 
But — poor,  pitiful  worms  of  the  dust  that  we  are — such 
seasons  will  arise;  and  we  have  to  knock  under  to  them, 
just  as  we  do  to  the  periods  of  frost  and  sunshine.  I 
have  known  the  time,  my  virtuous  and  dyspeptic  friend, 
when  the  highest  bliss  I  could  picture  to  myself  was 
a  cloudless  summer  day,  about  two  years  long,  in  the 
which  the  present  despicable  wretch  now  writing  these 
lines  did  nothing  but  sit  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  under  the 
shade  of  a  mighty  tree,  and  eat  the  ice-cold  core  of  a 
vast,  preposterous,  and  unbounded  watermelon,  from 
soon  in  the  morning  until  midnight.  Forgive  me,  for- 
give me,  ye  earthly  saints  who  live  not  by  bread  alone, 
and  who  never  have  any  bad  thoughts;  but  the  fact  is, 
I  do  really  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  would  like  to  eat  or 
drink  some  particular  good  thing,  right  straight  ahead 
for  several  consecutive  centuries,  without  stopping  even 
to  take  breath. 

Under  the  locusts  in  the  front  yard  there  is  a  bench 
of  a  convenient  height  to  be  eaten  off  when  a  person 
is  standing  up.  Here  Uncle  Flatback  leads  his  guests 
of  a  summer  evening,  and  drawing  a  great  pocket- 
knife,  plunges  it  remorselessly  into  the  delicious  en- 
trails of  his  green-ribbed  victims,  until  a  dozen  or  so 
are  split  wide  open,  and  lie  at  the  mercy  of  the  mouth- 

85 


MY  UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

watering  by-standers.  Pitch  in  freely,  young  men  and 
maidens,  but  beware  of  yonder  grizzly  bearded  priest 
of  melons,  whose  sacrificial  blade  has  opened  this  in- 
viting expanse  of  vegetable  meats  for  your  behoof.  His 
stern  and  oft-repeated  "take  keer  uv  the  seed"  is 
meant  in  earnest,  I  assure  you.  Incur  not  the  wrath 
of  the  hospitable  ancient,  whatever  you  do;  but  eat 
till  you  can  eat  no  more,  and  never  mind  your  fin- 
gers and  mouth,  over  which  the  sweet  juice  is  rapidly 
crystallizing  into  sticky  watermelon  candy,  for  'Liza 
— or  Link,  as  the  seed-saving  ancient  calls  her — will 
be  here  presently  with  a  bowl  full  of  fresh  spring-water, 
nice  soap,  and  plenty  of  towels — the  people  of  Moun- 
tain View  being  a  cleanly  race,  and  having  a  madness 
for  towels,  of  which,  to  the  best  of  my  remembrance, 
there  are  never  less  than  half  a  million  on  hand  at  a 
time. 

Following  the  course  of  the  river,  you  find  below 
the  watermelon  patch  a  number  of  towering  sycamores, 
rising  out  of  a  tangled  thicket.  In  former  years  these 
trees  used  to  be  the  resort  and  dormitory  of  that  most 
graceful  object  of  Southern  skies — the  "tukky-buz- 
zard."  It  is  said  they  were  driven  off  by  the  cannonad- 
ing of  the  first  battle  of  Manassas,  two  hundred  miles 
away — a  pretty  story,  truly.  Just  beyond  this  "roost" 
there  is  a  dam,  over  which  the  muddy  water  falls  as 
naturally,  if  not  as  beautifully,  as  at  Niagara.  This 
dam  feeds  Morton's  or  Jackson's  mill,  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  down  the  stream;  and  this  mill — a  biggish  pile 
of  dusky  weather-boarding,  which  once  had  some  pre- 
tentions to  the  proud  name  of  Merchants'  mills,  and 

86 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

the  gable  of  which  may  be  seen  peeping  above  the  lux- 
urious foliage  that  lines  the  banks  of  the  river — is  one 
of  the  prettiest  and  most  pleasing  sights  at  Mountain 
View.  For  I  am  of  Macdonald's  opinion,  that  true 
happiness  consists  in  living  in  the  country  and  owning 
a  little  mill.  Apart  from  the  beauty  of  the  big  wheel 
in  motion,  there  is  a  satisfaction  in  taking  toll  of  your 
neighbor,  a  charm  in  the  racket  and  the  dropping 
corns  of  the  hopper,  and  a  sense  of  company  in  the 
continual  recurrence  of  a  nigger  boy,  perched  on  top  of 
a  meal-bag,  far  back  upon  the  haunches  of  a  sober-sided 
old  family  mare.  Mills  suggest  peace,  home,  and 
plenty;  and  then  I  think  the  apparition  of  an  honest, 
chunky,  well-bred,  respectful,  and  not  too  self-impor- 
tant negro  miller,  all  covered  with  meal,  at  the  door  of 
the  mill,  is  one  of  the  finest  sights  in  the  world,  next 
to  a  country  blacksmith's  shop  in  the  night  time.  Yan- 
kees and  English  can  write  poems  about  their  mills 
and  smithies;  why  can't  we  of  the  South?  I'll  tell 
you;  it's  because  we  are  too  wretchedly  lazy.  Plague 
take  it!  if  I  had  the  leisure  and  the  mill,  or  the  black- 
smith shop,  I  wouldn't  ask  anybody  any  odds,  but 
write  the  poem  myself.  And  I  bet  you  what  you  dare, 
it  would  be  a  good  one,  and,  what  is  more  to  the  pur- 
pose, it  would  be  Southern — so  Southern  that  there 
would  be  no  mistaking  it.  A  Yankee  would  throw  up 
the  whites  of  his  eyes  on  reading  it.  Consoun  our 
Southern  poets!  they  sing  about  everything  except  the 
things  we  common  people  most  care  about — the  scenes 
and  sounds  of  home,  far  in  the  depths  of  the  uncon- 
taminated  country,  where  the  little  that  is  yet  unpolluted 

87 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

by  Yankee  ideas  and  customs  still  remains.  Our 
Southern  poets  all  want  to  be  like  Shakespeare,  who 
was  a  universal  sort  of  all  out-o'-doors  and  all  over 
creation  of  a  fellow — a  man  of  no  time  and  no  country, 
but  for  all  time  and  all  countries — and  in  aiming  to  be 
Shakespeare,  they  succeed  in  being  nobody  at  all.  If 
they  would  quit  straining  at  the  heroic  and  the  historical, 
kick  Tennyson  and  all  other  models  into  the  middle 
of  next  week,  or  elsewhere,  and  if  they  would  content 
themselves  with  the  homely,  and  come  right  down  to  the 
soil  that  gave  them  birth,  they  might  do  something. 
My  judgment,  which  may  be  very  valuable,  for  aught 
I  know,  is,  that  when  a  man  thinks  the  afflatus  is  in 
him,  his  first  business  is  to  let  books  rigorously  alone; 
his  next,  second,  last,  and  only  business  is  to  go  straight 
to  mother  nature,  get  in  her  lap,  look  deeply  in  her 
beautiful  eyes,  and  listen  finely  to  her  voice  (whispering 
to  him  alone),  and  then  tell  what  he  has  seen  and  heard 
as  simply  and  as  musically  as  he  can.  Heretofore 
Southern  poets  have  coveted  the  approbation  of  scurvy 
Yankee  newspapers,  and  followed  Yankee  models,  oh, 
shame!  in  order  to  gain  it.  One  of  the  compensations 
of  this  frightful  war  is  the  deliverance  of  our  literature 
from  this  bondage,  and  the  birth  of  a  school  of  poets 
truly  Southern.  Already  Hayne,  Thompson  (J.  R.), 
Timrod,  and  Randall  have  given  us  heroic  songs, 
which  belong  to  us  and  to  us  alone — born  as  they  are 
of  the  inspiration  bequeathed  by  martyred  patriots — 
legacy  priceless  and  immortal — and  copied  after  no 
models.  Better  is  yet  to  come,  when  time  shall  have 
hallowed  and  glorified  the  men  and  deeds  of  these 

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MY   UNCLE    FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

fateful   days.       Who   will    sing    Stonewall    Jackson's 
elegy  ? 

On  the  road  from  the  mill — here,  since  this  piece 
is  to  be  as  rambling  and  parenthetical  as  any  Sterne 
ever  wrote — let  me  stop  a  bit.  The  little  one-story- 
and-a-half  dwelling-house  near  the  mill  would  make 
an  exquisite  pencil  sketch  or  painting  in  water  colors 
or  in  oil;  it  is  one  of  myriads  in  Virginia.  Porte 
Crayon  had  an  eye  for  the  grand  and  the  comic,  also 
a  little  imagination.  He  did  partial  justice  to  her 
mountain  scenery,  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  the  indig- 
enous beings  of  the  rural  districts,  and  the  Virginia 
nigger  in  his  manifold  variety,  from  the  conceited 
carriage-driver  to  the  fat  cook  and  the  little  black  boy 
blowing  a  "blarther;"  but  he  had  no  eye  for  the  beau- 
ties of  Virginia  homes.  Is  it  a  marvel  he  deserted  to 
the  Yankees?  Whoso  will,  let  him  partake  freely  of 
the  moral  conveyed  in  this  digression. 

On  the  road  from  the  mill  to  Uncle  Flatback's  there 
is  a  beautifully  secluded  and  delightful  bridge.  Big 
trees,  dressed  with  wild,  luxuriant  vines,  bend  over  and 
frame  it  in  from  the  workday,  cornfield  world  on  either 
hand.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  cross  this 
bridge  except  on  foot,  and  its  use  as  a  crossing  for  ve- 
hicles has  long  since  been  abandoned.  The  neighbors 
who  used  to  patronize  the  mill  abuse  Patrick  Jackson, 
the  mill-owner,  for  not  repairing  the  bridge,  and  Patrick 
Jackson,  in  turn,  abuses  the  neighbors  for  not  furnish- 
ing the  timber.  Both  parties,  I  think,  deserve  leather 
medals  for  being  gloriously  lazy  Virginians,  willing 
rather  to  let  things  rot,  and  break  the  legs  of  horses 

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MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK's   PLANTATION 

and  the  necks  of  niggers,  than  to  get  into  a  Yankee 
stew  and  a  New  England  fease  the  moment  anything 
needs  mending,  and  to  work  madly  over  every  crack 
and  fissure,  as  if  godliness  consisted  in  patching,  and 
the  world  would  be  blotted  out  of  existence  the  moment 
it  ceased  to  smell  of  newly  sawed  pine  and  fresh  varnish. 
For  my  part,  I  hope  the  bridge  will  never  be  mended, 
but  stay  just  as  it  is  until  the  bumbler-bees — humble- 
bees?  not  any,  I  thank  you — I  speak  Virginian,  not 
the  lingo  of  Bosting,  or  even  of  Ingling  (perhaps  you'd 
like  for  me  to  say  England.  I  be  blamed  if  I  do) — 
until  the  bumbler-bees,  and  other  borers,  reduce  it  to 
wood-dust  and  scatter  it  atom  by  atom  into  the  stream. 
As  long  as  the  bridge  is  in  its  present  breakneck  con- 
dition, Uncle  Flatback's  plantation  will  not  be  a  thor- 
oughfare for  everybody  who  wants  to  take  a  short  cut 
from  the  plank  road  to  the  old  stage  road  to  Rich- 
mond. I  hate  a  place  that  is  continually  enlivened  and 
afflicted  by  people  travelling  vaguely  about  in  shackly 
buggies  that  can  run  along  a  road  no  broader  than  a 
hog  path.  There  is  no  peace,  no  sense  of  ownership  in 
such  a  place  as  that.  You  might  as  well  have  no 
place  at  all.  The  hands  in  the  field  are  always  stopping 
to  look  at  these  wandering  vehicles,  the  axles  of  which 
invariably  creak  loud  enough  to  be  heard  half  a  mile 
off.  Like  as  not  they'll  break  down  right  at  your  door, 
and  the  people  will  be  sure  to  stay  all  night,  and  the 
unclean-nosed  child  in  the  buggy  (there  is  always  one 
of  them)  will  give  your  children  the  itch  or  the  measles, 
and  the  black  girl  who  rides  behind  the  buggy  will 
make  herself  generally  obnoxious  by  fascinating  the 

90 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

boy  that  brings  wood   into  the  house.     Even  if  the 
fugitive  buggy  don't  break  down,  from  the  moment 
it  heaves  in  sight,  everybody  in  the  house,  the  kitchen, 
and  the  quarters  is  in  a  fever  of  uncertainty  as  to  whose 
buggy  it  is;  and  as  it  comes  up  slowly,  a  half-hour  or 
more  is  wasted  in  conflicting  and  vain  conjectures,  until 
it  passes  by — the  man,  woman,  child,  servant,  and  horse 
all  staring  stupidly  at  you  and  all  your  folks,  who  are 
staring  stupidly  at  them;  and  when  the  plaguy  thing 
is  gone  and  quiet  is  once  more  restored,  its  horrid 
creaking  leaves  you  with  a  toothache  and  a  crick  in  the 
neck,  and  starts  old  Ring,  who  ought  to  have  been 
dead  long  ago,  to  howling,  until  you  are  mad  enough  to 
beat  his  brains  out  with  the  fishing-pole  which  you 
have   been   peacefully   trimming.     I   am   not  lacking 
in  the  natural  instinct  of  hospitality,  but,  Virginian 
as  I  am,  if  I  had  a  place,  by  jingo !  there  should  not  be 
a  gate  in  it — nothing  but  drawbars  twenty  poles  high, 
and  each  pole  fastened  with  ten  thousand  knots  of  the 
strongest,  biggest,  stiffest,  roughest,  and  hand  tearingest 
grape-vine  I  could  find.    The  labyrinth  of  Crete  would 
be  a  "main,  plain  road"  compared  to  my  place,  and 
the  labors  of  Sisyphus  wouldn't  be  a  circumstance  to  the 
labor  of  getting  through  it.     As  for  bridges,  I  wouldn't 
have  one,  unless  it  was  two  hundred  years  old  and  half 
gone  when  it  was  first  built.     A  log,  a  round,  slippery 
log,  with  the  bark  off,  fastened  high  up  in  the  crotch 
of  a  tall  tree  on  this  side,  and  stuck  in  the  crotch  of 
a  still  taller  tree  on  the  other  side  of  the  creek,  is  a  good 
enough  bridge  for  me.     If  people  want  to  see  me, 
let  'em  swim  like  Leander,  or  wade  like  Cousin  Sally 

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MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

Dillard.  Maybe  I'll  have  a  "cunner"  for  them  I 
like  best,  but  further  than  that  I  will  not  go — no,  I 
will  not — you  needn't  ask  me. 

Many  pleasant  evening  strolls  I  have  had  to  the  old 
bridge,  all  by  myself,  leaning  over  the  bewhittled  and 
name-graven  railing,  thinking  thoughts  and  dreaming 
dreams  till  the  evening  star  arose  and  the  whippoor- 
will  began  his  chant.  But  the  water  under  the  bridge 
is  not  clear  as  crystal,  swift  as  an  arrow,  and  spar- 
kling as  a  stream  of  diamonds — fit  abode  for  Naiads 
and  Undines — but  muddy  as  the  telegraphic  despatches 
from  Mississippi  before  the  fall  of  Vicksburg,  slow  as 
an  army  wagon  or  a  conscript  making  a  charge,  and 
full  of  all  manner  of  nasty  and  confounded  "mud- 
kittens,"  "snap'n  turtles,"  and  snake-doctors.  Still, 
I  love  to  go  there  and  look  by  the  hour,  not  at  the 
plague-taked  water,  but  at  the  pendent  vines,  the  in- 
tricate emerald  umbrage  cut  daintily  upon  the  azure 
ground  of  the  sky,  the  many-shaped  clouds,  the  ravish- 
ing dyes  of  sunset,  and  fancying  what  a  great  fellow  I 
might  be  if  I  only  had  money  enough  to  quit  writing 
nonsense  and  stick  resolutely  to  poetry  and  romance. 

As  you  go  from  George  Daniel's — I  think  I'd  better 
write  it  Dannill's,  that's  the  way  Virginians  pronounce 
the  name — as  you  go  from  George  Dannill's  land  to 
Unc'  Jim's,  the  road  runs  close  to  the  river  bank, 
and  through  a  dense  growth  of  bushes,  which,  in  former 
years,  when  the  carriage  could  go  on  the  bridge,  and 
I  used  to  go  with  Aunt  Mary  and  Cousin  Betsy  to 
church,  gave  us  no  end  of  trouble;  for  if  we  dodged  from 
one  side  of  the  carriage  to  the  other,  to  keep  the  intrud- 

92 


MY  UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

ing  branches  from  scratching  our  eyes  out,  we  were 
sure  to  encounter  a  set  of  branches  still  longer  and  more 
insolent,  besides  skinning  our  elbows — no  small  calam- 
ity to  a  body  with  as  plump,  fine  arms  as  Betsy's — 
against  the  brass  buttons  by  which  the  carriage  curtains 
were  fastened.  Unc'  Jim  never  had  the  address  and 
hardihood  to  clear  up  this  thicket,  or  to  prune  the 
pugnacious  branches.  So,  Sunday  after  Sunday  we 
had  to  run  the  gantlet  and  display  our  agility  in  dodg- 
ing around  a  space  not  much  larger  than  the  inside  of  a 
coffee-pot — for  the  carriage  was  a  Yankee  carriage,  as 
scrimp,  meagre,  and  rickety  as  the  cheap  and  wretched 
souls  that  made  it.  Woodson,  the  carriage-driver, 
when  struggling  through  this  bushy  maze,  used  to 
imitate  the  most  difficult  feats  of  the  ancient  gymnast 
or  modern  India-rubber  man  of  the  circus,  by  tying 
himself  into  a  double-bow-knot,  and  placing  the  top 
of  his  head  on  the  bottom  of  the  foot-board,  so  that 
only  the  small  of  his  back  and  the  tips  of  his  knee-pans 
were  visible.  Since  the  "  bustid  "  condition  of  the  bridge 
has  made  church-going  by  the  Jackson's  mill  route 
impossible,  the  thicket  has  been  left  to  its  own  wild 
will,  and  has  become  as  impenetrable  as  the  abattis 
which  Hooker  vainly  erected  in  the  Wilderness.  Well, 
I  am  not  sorry.  Trees,  as  I  said  before,  are  living  souls ; 
I  love  to  see  'em  grow,  and  it  hurts  me  to  see  them 
destroyed  merely  to  make  room  for  people  to  pass. 
Why,  I  would  like  to  know,  can't  we  treat  them  as 
politely  as  we  do  other  gentlemen  of  high  standing? 
One  vacation  old  Hart  cut  down  a  dead  apple  tree 
that  grew  by  the  fence  which  enclosed  the  playground 

93 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

at  Edgehill.  I  saw  the  gap  the  moment  I  got  back, 
and  felt  as  if  one  of  the  boys  had  died.  When  Uncle 
Jim  cut  down  the  pines  between  the  house  and  Israel 
Hill  simply  to  get  a  better  look  at  the  train  as  it  passed, 
it  seemed  to  me  as  cruel  and  unwise,  as  if  a  tyrant  had 
destroyed  a  fine  army  merely  to  get  a  view  of  a  fast 
woman.  I  detest  clearings  and  tree  murderers  of  all 
sorts.  The  sight  of  a  new  ground  makes  me  as  mad 
as  the  devil.  To  kill  a  forest  in  order  to  raise  a  weed 
— tobacco — is  to  me  the  very  climax  of  crime  and  folly. 
The  depraved  and  irrational  salivary  glands  of  the 
human  race  have  a  vast  deal  of  sin  to  answer  for. 
They  have  played  Mother  Earth  the  same  vile  trick 
Lot's  sons  played  on  him;  they  have  uncovered  her 
nakedness;  nay,  worse,  they  have  heaped  hickory 
ashes  and  many  chunks  of  burnt  "bresh"  upon  her 
fair  bosom,  all  for  the  sake  of  getting  something  bitter 
and  dirty  and  dauby  to  make  'em  spit,  and  keep  on 
spitting  the  livelong  day.     Isn't  it  horrible  ? 

Not  a  word — none  of  your  sneers,  gibes,  retorts,  and 
"physician  heal  thyself."  I  do  smoke;  nay,  to  my 
shame  be  it  admitted,  I  even  chaw  a  little.  I  own  I  am 
as  bad  as  any  of  you.  But  that  doesn't  make  tobacco 
any  cleaner  or  the  clearing  of  new  grounds  less  murder- 
ous. You  see  you  can't  make  anything  out  of  me 
by  your  rejoinders  and  argumenta  ad  hominem.  Cease, 
therefore,  and  throw  that  villanous  plug  in  your  coat- 
tail  away,  and  don't  clap  the  crumbs  into  your  mouth 
in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness. 

The  fence  that  divides  DannilPs  land  from  Flat- 
back's  had  a  gate  just  beyond  the  thicket  before  men- 

94 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

tioned,  and  the  staples — that's  the  name,  I  believe — of 
that  gate,  are  driven  savagely  into  the  trunk  of  a  young 
and  very  pretty  beech-tree.  Who  was  the  unfeeling 
wretch  that  did  this  act  of  vandalism  ?  Would  that  I 
had  him  by  the  Adam's  apple  or  the  scruff  of  the  neck. 
Bad  enough  to  treat  an  innocent  lad  of  a  tree  in  this 
way,  but  to  make  a  gate-post  of  a  historical  tree  is 
outrageous.  On  the  bark  of  this  beautiful  beech-tree 
the  letters  J.  R.  are  cut,  and  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke 
is  said  to  have  cut  them  with  his  own  hand.  The  tra- 
dition may  be  apocryphal,  but  yonder  is  "Bizarre," 
scarcely  half  a  mile  away,  where  Randolph  lived  for 
some  years  after  his  brother  Richard's  death — by  the 
way,  you  know  that  Dick  was  a  greater  man  than 
Jack  Randolph,  just  as  Bobus  was  greater  than  Sidney 
Smith — the  same  may  be  said  of  the  almost  unknown 
brothers  of  many  eminent  men — and  our  maltreated 
beech  is  on  the  road  to  "Sandy  Ford,"  the  mansion  of 
the  Dillons,  famous  in  the  old  times  for  its  hospitality, 
and  a  favorite  resort  of  Randolph's.  It  is  not  at  all 
impossible  that,  coming  home  from  Dillon's,  flown 
with,  not  insolence,  but  fried  chicken  and  wine,  and 
ruminating  sadly  on  the  certainty  of  his  leaving  no 
posterity  behind  him,  he  may  have  stopped  his  horse, 
and  left  his  name  to  be  perpetuated  by  this  lusty  young 
tree,  which  (albeit  the  gloomy  engraver  has  been  moul- 
dering in  his  grave  for  many  long  years),  seems  hardly 
to  have  attained  its  adolescence. 

After  you  leave  Randolph's  tree,  there  is  nothing  of 
interest  on  the  road  to  old  Flatback's — unless  it  be 
a  muddy  horse-pond  under  a  little  sycamore — until 

95 


MY  UNCLE   FLATBACK'S  PLANTATION 

you  come  to  the  spring.  It  is  a  splendid  spring,  ex- 
cept in  very  wet  weather,  when  the  back-water  of  the 
Appomattox  chokes  it  up,  and  it  tastes  of  its  own  moss. 
It  is  shaded  by  oaks  and  elms — magnificent  old  fellows, 
that  would  set  Virgil  crazy  were  he  to  see  them,  and 
throw  him  into  a  bucolic  equal  to  an  attack  of  Asiatic 
cholera.  Tityrus  never  recubed  under  anything  com- 
parable to  them.  It  is  a  fine  thing  of  a  hot  summer  day 
to  sit  under  these  noble  trees,  recline  your  head  against 
their  mighty  boles,  and  muse  sweetly  for  a  few  minutes, 
until  a  caravan  of  gigantic  black  or  red  pismires  begin 
a  pilgrimage  up  your  backbone — for  the  Virginia  ant, 
as  you  are  well  aware,  has  a  choice  knack  of  getting 
under  the  "body-linen,"  as  old  folks  call  it,  which  sets 
wristbands  and  collar-buttons  at  defiance. 

Hard  by  this  spring  there  are  some  utilitarian  fixtures 
which  disclose  the  indifference  of  the  true  Virginian 
to  aesthetics,  and  knock  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  on 
the  very  head  effectually.  They  are  fixtures  used  at 
hog-killing  time.  There  are  the  rocks  that  are  heated 
to  put  in  the  water  that  scalds  their  hair  off.  There 
is  the  pole  on  which  the  hogs  are  hung  by  the  hind  legs  to 
be  disembowelled.  There  they  are,  close  to  the  spring 
of  sweet  water  and  right  under  that  elm,  the  equal  of 
which  is  not  in  all  Virginia.  You  are  a  man  of  imagi- 
nation, of  course,  and  whenever  you  look  at  that  pole, 
you  see  the  naked  porcine  corpses  hanging  down, 
with  a  great  gash  in  front,  and  a  corn-cob  in  the  open 
bloody  mouth  of  each  of  them;  and  every  time  you 
look  at  these  rocks,  you  smell  burnt  hair  and  feel  bristles, 
and  remember,  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  the  first  night 

96 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

you  ever  saw  the  plantation  Crispin  making  low-quar- 
ter stitch-downs,  and  how  funny  it  was  to  see  a  man 
sewing  with  two  threads  at  the  same  time. 

There  are  some  jugs  of  milk  of  both  kinds — sweet 
milk  and  buttermilk — in  the  spring-house,  and  Ada 
will  be  here  presently  to  carry  them  to  the  house,  for 
Aunt  Mary  is  going  to  give  us  green-apple  tart  to-day; 
but  the  place  reminds  us  of  the  hogs,  so  let's  get  away 
to  the  thicket  of  plum  and  thorn  bushes,  just  over  the 
grassy  knoll  above  us.  Double  up  your  coat  for  a 
pillow  and  lie  down  awhile,  and  I'll  tell  you  something. 
You  see  that  old  tobacco-house  yonder?  You  do. 
Well,  do  you  know  that  in  all  the  Southern  novels  and 
poems  that  I  ever  read  or  heard  of,  there  is  not  a  line 
about  tilted  and  sway-back  old  tobacco-houses  or  about 
plum  bushes  or  thorn  bushes  ?  And  do  you  know  that  I 
think  there  is  a  deal  of  romance  and  of  poetry  in  these 
things  ?  Why,  the  thorn  bush  is  the  home  of  the  night- 
ingale— did  you  know  that?  No,  you  know  nothing 
and  care  less  about  these  very  romantic  things!  I 
knew  you  didn't.  You  are  Virginian,  and,  since  child- 
hood, you  have  ceased  to  care  about  plums — wild  plums, 
I  mean.  You  say  the  skin  is  bitter  and  the  things  get 
squashy  as  soon  as  they  are  ripe.  You  think  thorn 
bushes  were  made  especially  to  furnish  negroes  with 
vegetable  buttons  to  fasten  "galluses"  by,  and  as  for 
old  tobacco-houses,  you  are  too  busy  making  new  ones 
to  think  about  them  at  all.  Very  well,  sir,  if  these 
are  your  prosaic  views,  you  can  just  get  up  from  under 
Uncle  Flatback's  pretty  plum  bushes  and  go  with  me 
to  dinner,  and  eat  butter-beans  until  you  burst — fit  end 
for  you,  you  miserable  materialist. 

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MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

As  we  go  by  the  kitchen  and  the  quarters,  I  shall  not 
allow  you  to  talk  with  Malindy,  who  is  cooking  for  the 
hands,  or  with  Polly — for  dinner  is  late — or  with  Locky, 
who  is  ironing  like  mad — she  is  a  real  steam-engine, 
Locky  is — you  shall  interrupt  nobody,  but  go  straight 
along  into  the  yard  and  do  your  best  to  appease  the  ire 
of  Uncle  Flatback,  who  threatens  momentarily  to  "skin 
the  head"  of  Liza  and  Cary  Ann,  if  they  don't  "hurry 
up  that  mush."     As  for  me,  I  will  go  into  the  garden. 

No,  I  am  not  going  to  read  you  a  long  rigmarole 
about  the  garden — not  if  I  can  help  it — although,  on 
the  principle  of  praising  the  bridge,  I  ought  to  do  so; 
for  many  and  many  a  good  meal  this  garden  has  fur- 
nished me.  It  is  an  unpretentious  garden;  has  no 
palings,  you  see;  only  a  rail  fence.  The  reason  of  this 
is  this — Uncle  Flatback  rents  the  place,  and  won't  go 
to  any  unnecessary  expense  about  it.  If  he  owned  it, 
he  would  fix  up  things  nicely  enough;  but,  like  every 
true  Virginian,  he  has  been  on  the  eve  of  moving  to 
Alabama,  or  Mississippi,  or  Texas,  ever  since  he  first 
came  here — twenty  years  ago.  Butter-beans,  snaps, 
green  peas,  beets,  cabbage,  and  a  few  flowers  make 
up  the  contents  of  the  garden;  other  vegetables,  such 
as  tomatoes,  onions,  black-eye  peas,  cymlings,  and 
"rosin"  ears,  being  grown  here  and  there,  first  in  this 
and  then  in  that  patch,  in  various  parts  of  the  plantation 
— a  curious  and  peculiar  feature  of  old-fashioned  Vir- 
ginian management. 

About  gardens  and  orchards — by  the  way,  there  is  no 
orchard  at  Mountain  View,  because,  in  the  first  place, 
Uncle  Flatback  is  afraid  his  apples  and  peaches  might 
be  made  into  liquor  of  some  sort,  and  in  the  second 

98 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

place,  he  is  continually  going  to  go  to  Texas  or  else- 
where— about  gardens,  orchards,  clover  and  wheat 
fields,  there  is  something  to  be  said  which  I  have  never 
yet  heard  said,  namely:  they  are  (to  me  at  least)  proofs 
of  the  existence,  wisdom,  and  goodness  of  Deity,  better 
and  more  convincing  than  Paley's  watch,  or  any  other 
argument  from  design  ever  excogitated  by  the  philoso- 
phers. Just  think  how  ready  to  the  hand  all  fruits, 
vegetables,  and  grains  grow.  Suppose  you  had  to  plant 
a  ladder  against  the  pole  every  time  you  wanted  to  get 
a  dish  of  snaps,  or  to  send  a  man  up  in  a  balloon  to  get 
your  apples,  or  to  cut  through  trees  two  feet  thick,  in 
order  to  harvest  a  crop  of  corn,  or  to  sink  a  shaft  when- 
ever you  had  sweet-potatoes  for  dinner.  What  a  hard 
old  world  to  live  in  this  would  be,  if  a  man  had  to  blast 
out  his  turnips,  or  make  use  of  a  patent  Yankee  stump- 
puller  to  get  at  each  separate  head  of  clover,  or  to 
worry  his  asparagus  out  of  the  earth  with  the  aid  of  a 
jack-screw !  Then  how  easy  it  is  to  shell  peas  and  peel 
peaches;  why,  you  can  mash  soft  peaches  with  your 
mouth,  without  peeling  them  at  all.  Think  what  in- 
tolerable botheration  it  would  be  to  crack  open  water- 
melons with  a  sledge-hammer,  or  to  saw  through  pea- 
hulls  as  you  do  cocoanuts.  Pursue  the  idea,  my  friend, 
and  the  next  time  you  see  a  cucumber,  or  a  pumpkin, 
or  cymling  lying  invitingly  on  the  ground,  as  much  as 
to  say  "here  I  am,  ready  for  you,"  thank  the  Lord  for 
all  his  goodness. 

The  garden  looks  toward  the  railroad,  and  on  both 
sides  of  the  railroad  you  see  a  number  of  negro  cab- 
ins, which    you    can    take    to    be    Uncle    Flatback's 

99 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

quarters.  No  such  thing.  They  are  relics  of  a  grand 
experiment  at  emancipation  made  some  forty  or  fifty 
years  ago  by  Dick  Randolph.  Like  most  of  the  men 
of  his  day,  Dick  throught  slavery  a  great  evil,  and  at 
his  death  manumitted  his  negroes,  gave  them  plenty 
of  tolerably  fertile,  well-timbered,  and  well-watered 
land,  parcelled  it  off  into  small  farms,  gave  them  stock- 
farm  implements,  etc.  The  negroes  looked  upon  their 
landed  estate  as  new  Canaan,  and  called  it  "Israel 
Hill,"  by  which  name  it  goes  to  this  day.  They  had 
the  advantage  of  years  of  slavery,  which  civilized  and 
Christianized  them;  habituated  them  to  labor  and 
taught  them  the  mode  of  raising  crops.  They  had, 
moreover,  the  advice  and  assistance  of  white  neighbors, 
all  of  whom,  at  first,  regarded  the  scheme  with  scarcely 
less  favor  than  Randolph  himself,  and  were  disposed 
to  aid  the  negroes  in  any  and  every  way  possible.  The 
experiment  was  fairly  made.     Its  failure  was  signal. 

In  this  year  of  grace,  1862,  the  population  of  Israel 
Hill  is  scarcely  so  great  as  it  was  forty  or  fifty  years 
ago,  when  the  inhabitants  entered  the  new  Canaan. 
Had  they  remained  slaves,  their  numbers  would  have 
been  quadrupled.  As  it  is,  they  will  doubtless  die  out 
in  the  course  of  a  few  years  and  disappear,  as  they  have 
done  in  Gerrit  Smith's  and  so  many  other  Yankee  ex- 
periments at  colonizing  free  negroes.  One  or  two  of  the 
Israel  Hill  families  exhibit  in  their  abodes  and  crops 
some  capacity  for  self-improvement;  the  rest  are  thrift- 
less, to  say  the  least.  Men  and  women  alike  earn  a 
precarious  subsistence,  laying  up  nothing  and  spending 
much  of  their  earnings  in  drink.     One  of  their  number, 

100 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

the  patriarch  of  the  Hill,  old  Uncle  Sam  White,  now 
considerably  more  than  one  hundred  years  of  age,  is  so 
remarkable  that  a  bare  outline  of  his  character  would 
require  a  separate  article.  A  more  honest,  upright 
man,  a  more  truly  pious  and  devoted  Christian,  cannot 
be  found  in  this  whole  Confederacy.  A  cheerful  old 
man,  his  laugh,  as  he  walks  along  the  railroad  and 
stops  to  speak  with  his  acquaintances,  may  be  heard 
for  half  a  mile.  He  is,  withal,  a  gentleman  of  the  old 
school,  full  of  a  century  ago,  in  the  house  of  his  aristo- 
cratic master;  and,  previous  to  the  war,  while  wine  was 
yet  attainable,  never  failed  to  set  his  decanter  out  when 
you  entered  his  humble  cabin.  No  man,  white  or 
black,  is  more  respected  in  his  neighborhood  than  this 
genial,  honest,  Godly  minded  old  man;  and  when  he  goes 
to  his  long  home,  as  he  must  soon  do,  there  will  be 
more  regret  for  his  loss  among  the  whites  than  among 
the  people  of  his  own  color. 

Let  me  now  come  back,  if  I  possibly  can,  to  Mountain 
View,  and  close  this  discursive  and  tiresome  article 
with  a  brief  account  of  old  Flatback  himself.  He  is 
the  son  of  a  lieutenant  of  the  American  Revolution,  who 
entered  the  ranks  as  a  private,  and  fought  through  the 
war,  and  bore  upon  his  person  the  mark  of  an  honorable 
wound.  This  son  of  his  served  in  the  War  of  '12,  as 
a  private  in  the  Virginia  line,  marched  from  the  Valley 
to  Ellicott's  Mill,  but  was  never  in  any  engagement. 
True  to  their  parentage,  his  sons  have  played  a  manly 
part  in  the  great  struggle  against  the  North.  When  the 
war  broke  out,  one  of  them  was  in  Texas.  He  hurried 
home,  joined  Garnett's  command,  and,  by  the  acci- 

101 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

dental  discharge  of  a  pistol,  fell  at  Rich  Mountain, 
before  the  disastrous  battle  at  that  place  occurred.  The 
other  has  been  in  the  war  from  the  beginning,  and, 
if  he  is  alive,  is  still  a  private  in  Stuart's  cavalry.  I 
am  told  that  the  Prince  Edward  troop,  raised  by  the 
gifted  and  ill-fated  Thornton,  contains  no  better  soldier 
and  no  greater  favorite,  than  William  Flatback. 

With  all  his  eccentricities  of  dress  and  behavior, 
old  Governor  Flatback — he  is  called  governor  in  com- 
pliment to  his  real  or  fancied  authority  over  his  nearest 
neighbors,  the  sable  residents  of  Israel  Hill — is  greatly 
liked  and  respected.  The  young  men,  and  the  old  as 
well,  of  the  neighboring  village,  are  never  tired  of  joking 
him  about  his  temperance  hobby,  his  belief  in  the  me- 
dicinal virtues  of  white-oak  bark,  and  many  other  odd 
notions.  He  takes  a  joke  generally  in  good  part,  and 
is  not  unskilful  in  returning  the  rough  compliments  of 
his  assailants,  but  is  at  times  quite  hot-tempered  and 
excitable — which  makes  the  fun  of  teasing  him  all  the 
more  pleasant  to  his  persecutors. 

Besides  being  a  great  temperance  and  white-oak  bark 
man,  he  is  a  great  raiser  of  watermelons  and  cornfield 
peas.  It  was  at  his  house  that  I  was  first  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  superlative  virtues  of  that  peculiar 
variety  of  the  cornfield  pea  known  as  the  "grey  crowd- 
er";  and  as  for  his  melons,  their  fame  has  gone  forth 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth— with  slight  limitations.  In 
addition  to  these  claims  to  greatness,  he  was,  in  his 
youth,  a  mighty  fox-hunter,  owned  the  best  pack  of 
hounds  in  the  country,  and  bred  and  trained  a  series  of 
the  most  remarkable  dogs,  all  named  "Redcoat,"  that 

102 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

ever  lived.  Le  Roi  est  mort;  vive  le  Roi.  The  dog 
died,  but  Redcoat  survived.  When  the  first  Redcoat 
expired  his  son  fell  heir  to  the  title,  and  so  on  for  I 
know  not  how  many  years.  In  the  same  way  there  was 
a  succession  of  terriers  named  Bob,  the  property  of  the 
governor's  second  son,  James,  who  died,  as  before 
stated,  at  Rich  Mountain.  The  last  Bob,  a  sober-sided, 
gentlemanly  dog,  who  travelled  with  his  master  to  Kan- 
sas and  back,  may  be  seen  to  this  day  at  Mountain 
View,  a  mournful  reminder  of  the  generous-hearted 
young  man  who  loved  him  so  fondly,  for  whose  sake 
he  is  cherished  and  petted  to  the  serious  detriment  of 
his  health — for  overfeeding  has  produced  a  cutaneous 
disease  that  worries  him  incessantly,  and  has  made 
him  gnaw  nearly  all  the  hair  off  his  hind  quarters. 
To  tell  the  wonders  performed  by  the  Redcoat  lineage 
would  require  a  volume.  If  my  Uncle  Flatback's  fond 
memory  may  be  trusted,  no  such  dogs  ever  lived  before, 
or  ever  will  live  hereafter.  Lightning  on  four  legs 
might  rival  their  speed;  anything  less  fleet  they  could 
distance  easily.  Like  the  lama  of  Peru,  mentioned  by 
the  showman,  who  "travels  at  the  rate  of  forty  miles 
a  minute — pigeon  tied  to  his  tail  can't  keep  up" — 
they  were  considered  as  rather  rapid  than  otherwise. 
With  regard  to  their  noses,  it  is  enough  to  state  that 
they  did  not  consider  a  trail  cold  until  it  was  six  weeks 
old  and  ploughed  up  at  that.  The  music  of  their 
voices  was  so  exquisite  that  Uncle  Flatback  declares  it 
invariably  cured  him  of  a  raging  toothache,  or  lockjaw, 
or  hydrophobia,  or  some  such  infirmity  to  which  he 
was  subject  in  his  hunting  days. 

103 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

It  remains  only  to  speak  of  Governor  Flatback's 
kindly  heart  and  open-handedness  and  this  is  no  easy 
task  to  one  who  has  experienced  so  much  of  both  as  the 
writer  of  this  fatiguing  sketch.  To  say  that  he  is 
hospitable,  after  the  good  old  fashion  of  Virginia  hos- 
pitality, is  to  praise  him  but  lightly,  for  that  virtue  is 
still  common  to  all  who  inhabit  the  Old  Dominion. 
But  the  assertion  so  often  and  so  falsely  made  of  many 
men,  that  no  one  in  want  ever  left  his  door  empty- 
handed,  is  literally  true  in  his  case.  His  family,  like 
himself,  seem  never  so  happy  as  when  they  are  perform- 
ing some  friendly  and  generous  deed.  Nor  is  theirs 
a  half-way  performance.  I  will  give  a  single  instance 
in  proof  of  the  whole-souled  way  of  doing  things  in  the 
Flatback  household. 

Late  one  evening,  about  five  years  ago,  my  aunt 
came  running  to  the  house  in  great  alarm.  She  had 
been  frightened  by  a  strange-looking  man  who  was 
approaching  the  house.  This  man  soon  made  his 
appearance.  He  was  a  sight  to  see,  indeed.  A  mass 
of  rags  saturated  with  water  enveloped  an  emaciated 
frame,  and  under  an  immense  shock  of  matted  hair 
peered  forth  a  haggard  face,  the  picture  of  death.  He 
was  a  poor  Irishman,  making  his  way  on  foot  to  a  dis- 
tant city.  While  trudging  the  railroad  he  had  been 
taken  ill,  had  applied  at  various  houses  for  lodging,  and 
had  been  refused,  no  doubt  because  of  his  frightful 
appearance.  In  this  condition  he  had  been  forced  to 
lie  out  in  the  rain  for  two  consecutive  nights;  had 
dragged  his  way  to  Israel  Hill,  where  the  negroes 
directed  him  to  Governor  Flatback's,  as  perhaps  the 

104 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

only  place  in  which  he  would  be  sure  of  finding  a 
shelter. 

Most  people  would  have  been  satisfied  with  giving 
the  poor  man  supper  and  a  night's  lodging;  but  this 
was  not  the  Flatback  way  of  doing  things.  The  next 
morning  he  would  have  pursued  his  journey.  No; 
the  Flatbacks  would  not  hear  of  it;  he  must  stay  until 
his  clothes  were  washed,  and  until  he  got  stronger. 
James  Flatback  took  him  in  charge,  gave  him  a  good 
bath,  cut  his  long,  tangled  hair,  rigged  him  from  the 
skin  out  in  a  suit  of  his  own  clothes,  filled  his  pipe  with 
good  tobacco,  and  put  him  in  the  yard  under  a  tree  to 
dry.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  improved.  He  had  an 
honest,  intelligent  face,  and  sat  under  the  tree  in  a  state 
of  high  enjoyment. 

No  sooner  had  he  finished  smoking  than  a  big 
Flatback  watermelon  was  pressed  upon  him,  and  this, 
of  course,  brought  on  an  attack  of  the  ague  and  fever, 
which  had  seized  him  some  days  before.  He  was  put 
to  bed,  treated  with  calomel  and  quinine,  and  very 
soon  got  upon  his  legs  again.  But  the  chills  had  hardly 
subsided  before  a  galloping  consumption  came  on,  and 
we  expected  every  day  to  see  him  die.  It  was  pro- 
nounced by  a  competent  physician  a  case  of  genuine 
pulmonary  phthisis,  and  no  one  expected  him  to  live. 
The  poor  fellow  suffered  horribly.  As  he  lay  in  the 
little  room  adjoining  my  uncle's  chamber  it  was  fearful, 
during  the  paroxysms  of  expectoration,  to  hear  him 
alternately  cursing  and  praying  for  death  to  release 
him  from  his  pangs. 

Brandy  (in  spite  of  old  Flatback's  prejudices  against 

105 


MY   UNCLE   FLATBACK'S   PLANTATION 

liquor),  cod-liver  oil,  and  whatever  else  was  needed, 
was  supplied  ad  libitum,  and  six  weeks  after,  to  our 
utter  amazement,  Paddy  rallied  and  gave  unmistak- 
able evidence  of  an  intention  to  live.     He  did  live. 
Skilful  treatment,  good  nursing,  and  generous  living 
cured  him,  and  for  three  years  he  occupied  the  little 
room  next  to  my  uncle's,  working  whenever  it  suited 
him,   and   entertaining   Governor   Flatback,   who   be- 
came very  fond  of  him,  with  stories  of  his  adventurous 
life,  with  recitations  of  poetry,  and  with  a  never-failing 
flow  of  Irish  humor.     Soon  after  the  war  broke  out 
he  joined  the  army,  became  one  of  Jackson's  "foot 
cavalry,"  was  in  the  great  campaign  of  the  Valley,  from 
McDowell  to  Fort  Republic,  got  wounded  in  the  battles 
before  Richmond,  visited  Mountain  View  during  his  con- 
valescence, received  a  hearty  welcome,  and  returned  to 
his  command,  where  he  is  to  this  day,  for  aught  I  know. 
Such   are   the   Flatbacks.     If   they   had   not   over- 
whelmed me   time  and  again  with   kindness;   if   the 
patience  of  people  who  read  were  inexhaustible,  and 
if  paper  were  as  cheap  as  the  Flatbacks  are  generous, 
I  should  make  it  a  point  to  allude  to  them,  casually 
at  least,  if  not  favorably  and  at  length.     As  it  is,  I 
.  must  dismiss  them  with  a  simple  "God  bless  'em," 
as  a  people  too  warm-hearted  and  unworldly  for  serious 
notice  in  so  brief  and  pointed  an  article  as  this.     But 
if  time,  Yankees,  Confederate  taxes,  and  things  gen- 
erally, spare  me,  I  intend  some  day  to  do  them  justice, 
and  to  make  the  Flatbacks  and  myself  as  famous  as 
Willis's  Mountain,  Beard's  Old  Tavern,  or  the  Masonic 
Hall  in  Curdsville. 

106 


IV 
MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 


W 


"E  do  not  marry  our  own  wives!    We  marry  the 
wives  of  somebody,  of  anybody  else,  and  any- 
body or  somebody  else  marries  our  wives.     It  may 
sound  very  funny  and  very  silly  to  say  this,  but  it  is 
the  plain,  hard  truth,  and  nine  out  of  ten  married  men 
will,  in  their  secret  souls,  admit  it.     I  repeat  it,  we 
don't  marry  our  own  wives;  and  all  the  lawyers,  legis- 
lators, judges,  jurists,  statesmen,  philosophers,  physi- 
ologists, and  phrenologists  on  earth  can't  make  us  do 
it,  if  we  chose.     And  I  believe  we  would  choose,  for 
I  have  a  good  opinion  of  human  nature.     This  is  a 
puzzle  for  the  spirit-rappers — a  riddle  which  even  the 
Fourierites  cannot  solve.     Speculation,   ratiocination, 
imagination,  no  mental  faculty  or  process  will  avail  us 
here.     I  doubt  if  that  "  internal  apperception  at  a  depth 
within  the  penetralia  of  consciousness  to  which  Kant 
never  descended,"  of  which  Cousin  boasts,  will  mend 
the  matter.     But  the  reason  is  very  plain  to  me.     It 
was  not  intended  for  us  to  marry  our  own  wives;  "  God's 
last  best  gift  is  reserved"   unto  another  higher  life; 
elsewise  this  earthly  existence  would  of  itself  be  heaven. 
And  now  you  know  what  I  mean  by  "wife."     Not 

107 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

merely  your  wedded  spouse  and  lawful  mother  of 
your  children,  but  that  woman-soul,  fashioned  by 
God  himself  as  the  one  only  partner  and  complement 
of  your  soul;  truly  the  "better  half"  of  your  inmost 
self;  with  whom  you  are  perfect  man,  without  whom 
you  are  but  an  unhappy  segment,  more  or  less  dimly 
conscious  and  complaining  of  your  incompleteness. 
You  see  I  am  a  believer  in  the  exploded  theory  of 
"matches  made  in  heaven."  Yes,  I  am;  for  I  have 
seen  four  such  matches  in  my  life,  and  I  do  not  ex- 
aggerate when  I  say  that,  for  them,  the  millenium 
has  already  come.  But  I  have  been  lucky;  for  such 
matches  are  exceedingly  rare,  most  people  never  having 
seen  them  at  all. 

Not  only  do  we  not  marry  our  own  wives,  but  fre- 
quently we  never  so  much  as  see  them,  or,  if  we  do 
see  them,  don't  know  them.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
man  may  see  his  wife  and  know  her  to  be  his  wife, 
but  his  wife  may  not  know  him,  may  never  know 
him  in  this  life;  vice  versa,  the  wife  may  know  her 
husband  and  never  be  known  by  the  husband,  and  so 
on.  I  wish  to  record  my  experience  on  this  subject; 
and  if  I  do  so  in  a  somewhat  frivolous  style,  it  must 
not  be  inferred  that  I  am  not  in  earnest;  the  inference 
might  be  false — "many  a  true  word  is  spoken  in  jest." 

It  follows,  or  may  follow,  from  what  has  been  said, 
that  we  are  all  married.  Yes,  that  is  my  opinion. 
Now,  in  the  eye  of  the  law  and  of  society,  I  am  a 
bachelor,  with  every  prospect  of  remaining  a  bach- 
elor; but  in  point  of  fact,  and  in  the  eye  of  reason, 
I  am  a  married  man — just  as  much  of  a  married  man 

108 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

as  Brigham  Young  is;  the  only  difference  between 
us  being  that  his  wives  are  visible,  or  to  speak  phil- 
osophically, phenomenal,  while  my  wife  is  not,  ex- 
cept, as  before  said,  in  the  eye  of  reason — particu- 
larly my  reason.  I  say  again,  and  most  emphatically,  I 
am  a  married  man;  I  say  so  because  I  know  my  wife, 
that  is,  I  know  her  name  and  have  seen  her  twice. 
I  have  never  been  introduced  to  her,  never  spoke  a 
word  to  her  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life,  and  never 
expect  to.  She  doesn't  know  me  from  a  side  of  sole- 
leather,  probably  never  heard  of  me;  and  if  I  were 
to  go  to  her  and  tell  her  she  was  my  wife  (which  is  the 
fact)  would  have  me  put  in  jail  or  a  mad-house.  But, 
poor  thing!  that's  no  fault  of  hers  (she  being  entirely 
ignorant  of  my  theory,  and  of  the  eye  of  reason  also), 
and  she  is  my  wife,  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding. 

The  first  time,  which  was  the  next  to  the  last  time, 
I  ever  saw  her  was  about  three  years  ago — three  years 
ago  exactly,  next  February.  It  was  in  the  town  of 
Plantationton — a  little,  old,  drowsy  town  situated  on 
the  banks  of  a  little  muddy  river,  with  a  long,  ugly 
Indian  name.  The  stage  in  which  I  was  travelling  at 
the  eventful  time  stopped  in  Plantationton,  and  the 
stage-passengers  dined  there  in  a  rusty  old  tavern, 
with  a  big,  worm-eaten  porch,  and  a  gangrenous, 
cracked  bell.  I  got  out  of  the  stage,  feeling  very 
cramped-up  and  dirty,  and  straightway  betook  my- 
self to  a  tin  basin  (there  were  half  a  dozen  more  on 
the  old,  hacked-up  bench),  full  of  clear,  cold  spring- 
water,  by  the  help  of  which  and  a  piece  of  sticky  tur- 
pentine soap  I  managed  to  make  a  very  respectable 

109 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

ablution.  My  face  washed,  I  applied  it  for  a  few  min- 
utes to  a  long,  greasy,  ragged  old  linen  towel  that 
hung  up  on  a  roller  fastened  to  a  scabby,  old  weather- 
boarding;  then  I  parted  my  hair  with  the  half  of  an 
old  horn  comb  that  was  tied  to  a  string,  and  smoothed 
it  with  a  little,  old  wiry,  worn-out  hair-brush  that  was 
tied  to  another  string;  and  then  I  was  ready  for  dinner, 
which  was  not  yet  ready  for  me.  Pending  dinner,  I 
sat  down  in  a  split-bottomed  chair,  elevated  my  heels, 
leaned  back,  took  out  my  knife,  and  commenced  paring 
my  nails.  I  had  seen  the  little  old  town  frequently 
before,  and  didn't  care  to  see  it  again,  especially  on  a 
miserable,  gummy,  cloudy,  damp,  chilly  day  in  Febru- 
ary, and  so  confined  my  attention  for  some  time  to  my 
fingers,  of  which  I  am  rather  proud.  But,  fortunately 
for  me,  I  heard  an  old  fellow  behind  me  say,  "By 
dads!  she's  beautiful";  and  looking  up,  saw  the  young 
lady  alluded  to.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  never  looked 
down!  She  was  standing  exactly  opposite  me,  in  the 
front  door  of  a  dried-up  wooden  store;  her  head  was 
turned  up  the  street,  as  if  she  was  looking  for  somebody, 
and  her  little  foot  was  patting  the  sill  with  the  sauciest, 
sweetest  impatience  imaginable.  That  young  lady  was 
my  wife!     I  didn't  know  it  then,  but  I  know  it  now. 

She  was  beautiful — bewitchingly  beautiful — so  beau- 
tiful that  for  a  long  time  I  did  not  know  I  was  looking 
at  her — didn't  know  I  was  looking  at  anything — didn't 
know  anything.  The  joy  of  her  presence  was  flowing 
in  one  uninterrupted  stream  through  all  the  avenues  of 
sense,  and  it  was  not  until  my  soul  became  full  to 
the  brim  of  her  beauty  that  I  could  say  I  saw  at  all. 

110 


MY   WIFE,    AND   MY   THEORY   ABOUT   WIVES 

Whether  she  was  dressed  in  silk,  barege,  delaine,  or  calico 
I  could  never  tell,  and  never  cared;  I  remember  only 
her  little  bonnet  of  simple  straw — neat,  trim,  and  vastly 
becoming,  as  the  bonnets  of  pretty  women  always  are. 
She  was  young — not  more  than  eighteen — rather  above 
the  medium  height;  of  round  and  perfect  figure;  her 
hair  was  golden  and  her  eyes  were  blue;  her  complex- 
ion pure  as  light  itself,  fresh  as  the  dew,  and  glowing 
as  the  dawn.  She  must  have  felt  the  many  eyes  feed- 
ing on  her  cheek  and  brow,  for  she  turned  presently, 
and  how  instantly  the  impatient  little  foot  disappeared, 
how  archly  modest  the  smile  that  illumined  her  lightly 
blushing  face!  I  could  read  her  character  at  a  glance. 
She  was  warm,  and  tender,  and  true;  good,  wise,  merry, 
healthy,  happy,  sweet-tempered,  willing,  patient,  loving, 
tidy,  thrifty,  and  sincere,  and  everything  a  wife  ought  to 
be  or  could  be.  Why  didn't  I  know  she  was  my  wife  ? 
Why  didn't  she  come  over  and  tell  me  so?  Alas!  we 
were  both  blind — and  she  remains  so  still ! 

There  I  sat,  drinking  my  fill  of  beauty — inhaling 
bliss  at  every  breath.  How  little  did  she  dream  of 
what  was  going  on  in  my  soul!  How  could  she  tell 
that  her  radiant  image  was  effacing  all  other  images 
from  my  heart,  to  be  itself  effaced  for  a  time,  but 
only  to  reappear  in  the  hallowing  and  charming  hues 
of  memory — the  one  solitary  and  sufficing  ideal  of  my 
unblessed  life!  She  saw  me  gazing  at  her,  but  only 
as  she  had  seen  hundreds  gaze  before. 

A  primrose,  'mid  the  tavern's  stir, 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  her, 
And  it  was  nothing  more. 

Ill 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

I  was  only  a  sallow-faced  young  man,  with  a  black 
mustache  and  a  deal  of  impudence.  I  didn't  look 
like  her  husband  a  bit;  but  I  was  her  husband  for  all 
that — I  know  I  was. 

Fair  reader,  let  us  here  moralize  a  little.  But  no; 
I  am  not  good  at  that,  and,  besides,  I  am  too  prolix 
anyway.  Yet  remember,  beautiful  maiden,  and  be 
watchful  of  your  looks;  for,  all  unknown  to  yourself, 
you  may  be  shaping  for  life,  and  perhaps  for  life  be- 
yond life,  the  destiny  of  some  ill-looking  biped  who 
glares  at  you  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  street! 

All  the  other  stage-passengers,  and  all  the  tobacco- 
spitting  loungers  about  the  tavern,  were  gazing  at  her 
as  well  as  myself;  she  knew  it,  too — the  little  rogue ! — and 
was  pleased,  as  she  ought  to  have  been.  She  ceased 
to  look  for  that  somebody  up  the  street,  who  never 
came,  and  stole  a  sweet,  bright  glance  toward  us,  as  if 
to  say,  "I  can't  help  being  pretty,  indeed  I  can't.  I 
am  glad  you  think  me  so,  and  you  may  look  as  long 
as  you  please;  I  sha'n't  charge  you  anything." 

Bless  her  sweet  little  soul!  Every  man  on  that 
porch  ought  to  have  bent  his  knee  in  homage  to  so 
much  beauty  and  goodness. 

But  the  confounded  dinner-bell  rang,  and  the  beasts 
in  broadcloth  rushed  to  their  food  just  as  any  other 
beasts  would  have  done.  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it, 
but  a  most  unromantic  sense  of  propriety  smote  me 
the  moment  I  heard  that  accursed  bell.  "It  is  out  of 
the  question,"  said  I  to  myself,  "for  you  to  be  staring 
that  young  lady  out  of  countenance;  get  right  up  and 
go  to  your  dinner.     It  is  true,  you  may  never  see  so 

112 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

beautiful  a  face  again,  but  then,  you  know,  your  health 
is  delicate,  and  it  won't  do  to  neglect  so  important  a 
meal  as  dinner.  You  have  a  long  and  wearisome  ride 
before  you;  besides,  she  don't  care  anything  for  you,  and 
even  if  she  did,  you  are  in  no  condition  to  marry." 

Thus  did  mere  animal  cravings  prevail  against  the 
sweet  appeals  of  beauty;  and  thus  (as  the  last  clause 
of  my  mental  argumentation  abundantly  shows)  did 
my  mind  unconsciously  refuse  to  entertain  the  possi- 
bility of  a  rejection,  and  so  assert  the  truth  of  the 
statement  I  have  made,  namely,  that  she  was  my  wife. 
The  world  will  call  this  vanity,  but  I  call  it  intuition 
or  spontaneous,  unconscious  apperception.  With  great 
reluctance  I  rose  as  if  to  go;  she  saw  that  all  except 
myself  had  gone,  but  still  stood  in  the  front  door  of  that 
dried-up  old  store,  patting  the  sill  once  more  with  the 
tip  of  her  tiny  little  slipper.  She  was  so  good  that  she 
could  not  refuse  to  gladden  even  one  poor  mortal  with 
the  light  of  her  blessed  countenance.  It  flashed  across 
my  mind  that  I  might  save  fifty  cents  by  missing  my 
dinner;  avarice  had  come  to  the  aid  of  beauty,  and  I 
sat  down  again.  But  hunger  (yes,  miserable  human 
that  I  am,  it  was  hunger)  defeated  them  both. 

Ah!  if  I  had  only  known  then  as  much  as  I  know 
now,  how  differently  I  would  have  acted.  I  would 
have  dismissed  the  contemptible  subject  of  dinner, 
and,  having  summoned  a  waiter,  would  have  addressed 
him  thus:  "Boy,  do  you  see  that  old  red  trunk  in  the 
boot  of  the  stage  yonder?  Well,  just  take  that  trunk 
off;  I  am  so  pleased  with  your  lovely  village  that  I  in- 
tend to  stay  here  until  I  get  married."     The  young  lady 

113 


MY  WIFE,   AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  would  have  heard  me; 
it  would  have  produced  a  deep  impression  on  her  (and 
first  impressions,  you  know,  are  everything);  I  would 
have  remained  in  my  seat  until  the  young  lady  left;  I 
would  have  eaten  my  dinner  in  peace;  afterward  I 
would  have  donned  my  new  doeskin  breeches  and  my 
new  black  coat;  then,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  I  would 
have  procured  an  introduction  to  my  wife;  and  after  a 
while  I  would  have  married  her — there's  no  doubt 
about  it.  Although  I  was  poor,  her  beauty  and  her 
love  would  have  made  me  rich;  my  love  for  her  would 
have  made  me  strong  and  able  to  work;  by  this  time  I 
would  have  acquired  a  standing  in  society — I  would 
have  been  happy. 

But  I  sold  my  wife  for  a  mess  of  pottage — I  went 
in  to  dinner.  When  I  reached  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room  I  hesitated,  went  back  to  the  porch,  and  com- 
menced gazing  at  my  wife  as  before.  She  saw  me, 
and  gave  me  a  smile;  upon  my  honor  she  did.  It  was 
the  sweetest  smile  I  ever  received.  I  may  have  valued 
smiles  before,  but  it  is  certain  I  have  never  valued  one 
since.  Whatever  made  me  return  to  the  dining-room 
after  receiving  so  great  a  favor  I  could  never  remember. 
It  was  so  fated.  I  did  go  back  to  the  dining-room, 
hurried  through  my  dinner,  which  had  become  cold  and 
indigestible,  and  hurried  back  to  the  porch.  She  had 
gone  ! 

The  stage  was  waiting  for  me;  I  jumped  in,  and  it 
rattled  out  of  the  little  old  town.  We  had  not  gone 
many  miles  before  the  consequences  of  hasty  eating 
brought  on  a  terrible  attack  of  dyspepsia.     I  became 

114 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

painfully  aware  that  I  had  lost  my  dinner  and  my 
fifty  cents;  but  I  did  not  know  I  had  lost  my  wife — 
/  forgot  her!    I  was  returning,  after  a  long  absence, 
to  my  native  city,  to  enter  upon  a  new  and  untried  pro- 
fession; and  there  were  a  thousand  things  to  occupy 
my  attention,  to  the  exclusion,  not  only  of  wives,  but 
even  of  sweethearts.     So  I  lost  my  wife  and  didn't 
know  it!    And  so,  I  imagine,  most  of  us  lose  our  wives. 
About  a  year  and  a  half  afterward;   that  is,  about 
one  year  ago,  having  failed  in  business,  as  an  aimless, 
unmarried — that  is,  phenomenally  unmarried — man  is 
very  apt  to  do;  though  it  doesn't  make  much  difference 
if  such  a  man  does  fail,  especially  after  he  has  lost  his 
wife — having   failed   in   business,   I   say,   and   having 
nothing  to  do,  I  returned  to  Plantationton,  not  in  the 
stage,  but  in  the  cars,  the  railroad  having  been  in  the 
meantime    completed.     So    completely    had   my    wife 
gone  out  of  my  mind,  that  I  did  not  once  think  of  her 
when  I  sat  down  in  the  old  tavern  porch  and  looked 
over  at  the  dried-up  little  store,  in  the  door  of  which  I 
had  seen  her  patting  her  little  foot  so  prettily.     I  or- 
dered a  buggy  and  drove  out  to  my  uncle's,  about  three 
miles  from  town,  and  spent  many  pleasant  weeks  there 
during  the  hot  summer  months.     Being  a  young  man 
of  a  marriageable   age,   my  relations  very   naturally 
offered  to  introduce  me  to  the  marriageable  ladies  of 
the  neighborhood.     I  expressed  my  willingness.    Which 
sort  did  I  fancy — fair  or  dark,  blonde  or  brunette? 
Fair,  by  all  means;  who  ever  heard  of  a  sallow  man 
fancying  a  woman  of  his  own  complexion?     Oh!  then, 
I  ought  to  have  been  here  a  year  ago;  there  was  a  young 

115 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

lady  living  in  town,  a  great  friend  of  ours,  perfectly 
beautiful,  and  the  very  best  girl  in  all  the  world,  who 
would  have  suited  me  exactly.  Ah,  who  was  she? 
Miss  Jenny  So-and-so.  Jenny!  the  very  name  I  want 
my  wife  to  have;  describe  her  to  me.  They  described 
her.  It  was  the  identical  young  lady  I  had  seen  stand- 
ing in  the  old  store.  I  became  excited,  and  my  pulse 
rose  as  I  asked  the  question,  "Where  is  she  now?" 
"Oh!  she  has  been  married  a  long  time  to  Mr.  Thing- 
amy, and  lives  now  in  the  city  of  Jacksburg,  about  a 
hundred  miles  from  here."  My  pulse  sank,  not  be- 
cause I  knew  she  was  my  wife  (that  is  quite  a  recent 
discovery),  and  I  had  lost  her,  but  for  the  good  and 
sufficient  reason  (which  authors  have  but  lately  had  the 
honesty  to  avow)  that  every  bachelor  feels  himself 
defrauded  when  a  pretty  woman  marries.  From  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  I  wished  Mr.  Thingamy  and  the 
city  of  Jacksburg  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
before  they  ever  had  heard  of  the  beautiful  Miss  Jenny. 
I  felt  indignant  she  should  have  displayed  so  much 
haste  to  get  married;  and  I  refused  to  be  introduced 
to  anybody  in  the  neighborhood  of  my  uncle's.  But 
whenever  conversation  (as  it  will  often  do  in  the  best  of 
families)  turned  on  the  subject  of  young  ladies,  my 
uncle's  family  were  sure  to  bring  their  favorite  Miss 
Jenny  forward  as  a  paragon  of  beauty,  sweetness,  good- 
breeding,  good  everything.  As  often  as  this  would 
happen  an  unaccountable  depression  and  feeling  of 
loneliness  and  bereavement  would  come  over  me,  and 
last  for  hours.  I  can  now  account  for  it — it  was  the  as 
yet  inarticulate,  unintelligible  premonition — a  species 

116 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

of  spontaneous,  unconscious  apperception — of  nature, 
protesting  against,  and  at  the  same  time  preparing 
me  for,  the  full  consciousness  of  the  great  loss  I  had 
sustained  in  losing  my  wife.  My  uncle  had  named  a 
beautiful  kitten  after  her;  do  you  wonder  that  I  petted 
Jenny,  and  fed  her  and  caressed  her  every  day  I  re- 
mained in  the  country?  I  do  not.  I  am  naturally 
fond  of  cats,  and  that,  they  say,  is  a  sign  I  am  going  to 
be  an  old  bachelor.     Well,  what  if  it  is? 

When  the  summer  was  ended,  I  left  my  uncle's  and 
returned  home,  still  ignorant  that  I  had  lost  my  wife, 
and  forgetting  her  as  before.  For  nearly  a  year  I 
knocked  about  among  the  young  ladies,  falling  now 
a  little  in  love,  and  then  falling  out  again;  charging  my- 
self with  fickleness  and  want  of  decision  of  character, 
and  wondering  greatly  why  I  could  not  fall  really  in 
love  with  anybody.  Poor  fool!  I  didn't  know  that 
there  was  nobody  left  to  love;  I  was  married  and  didn't 
know  it.     Many  a  man  is  in  the  same  fix. 

Things  remained  in  this  condition  until  about  a 
month  ago,  when,  having  failed  a  second  time  in  busi- 
ness, I  concluded  to  spend  another  summer  at  my 
uncle's.  The  cars  dropped  me  at  Plantationton;  I 
went  to  the  same  old  tavern,  sat  down  in  the  same 
old  porch,  in  the  same  old  split-bottomed  chair,  and 
looked  over  at  the  same  old  store,  and  there,  by  Heaven! 
stood  my  wife,  in  almost  the  very  spot  I  had  first  seen 
her.  She  was  waiting  for  her  husband,  who  was 
following  with  the  nurse  and  child.  Her  husband 
was  a  dark-skinned  fellow — almost  as  dark  as  myself, 
and  not  very  unlike  me.     I  have  since  expended  some 

117 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

severe  thought  on  this  resemblance  between  me,  the 
spiritual  husband,  and  Thingamy,  the  phenomenal 
husband  of  my  wife,  and  it  is  perfectly  plain  to  my 
mind  that,  under  the  influence  of  the  same  spontane- 
ous, unconscious  apperception,  she  was  trying  her 
very  best  to  marry  me;  in  fact,  did  marry  as  near  me 
as  she  possibly  could.  How  that  fact  has  made  me 
love  her! 

The  whole  party  had  come  down  on  the  same  train 
with  me,  and  I  had  not  known  it.  Fate  again.  They 
stood  opposite  me  for  some  time,  apparently  resting, 
and  I  had  the  second  and  last  (I  know  it  will  be  the 
last)  long,  good  look  at  her.  She  was  greatly  changed. 
No  longer  the  same  buxom,  blooming  girl  I  had  seen 
years  before,  patting  her  pretty  foot  against  the  sill, 
but  a  beautiful  woman,  infinitely  lovelier  than  the  girl; 
pale,  but  beautiful  as  the  bright  fulfilment  of  the  per- 
fect day  is  beautiful — more  beautiful  than  the  rosiest 
hues  of  the  uncertain  dawn;  thin,  but  beautiful,  as 
thought  and  loving  cares  beautify  and  make  delicate 
mere  matter;  older  looking,  but  possessed  of  that  in- 
effable charm  which  only  the  realization  of  woman's 
destiny  can  impart  to  woman.  I  gazed  on  her,  not 
with  breathless  admiration  as  at  first,  but  with  calm, 
intelligent  adoration.  Positively,  hers  was  and  is  the 
sweetest  human  face  in  all  this  world.  Nothing,  abso- 
lutely nothing  was  wanting  from  those  pale  and  gentle 
features;  they  expressed  all  that  a  wife  and  mother 
ought  to  be.  And  even  as  I  gazed,  there  came  into  my 
soul  that  strange  pain  of  vacuity  and  deprivation — a 
numb  and  formless  hurt — which  needed  only  the  light 

118 


MY   WIFE,    AND   MY   THEORY   ABOUT   WIVES 

of  reflection  to  assume  the  acuteness  of  thought,  the 
permanence  of  knowledge. 

From  that  day  I  have  known  she  was  my  wife;  how 
I  knew  it,  and  why  I  knew  it,  has  been  told  already,  or 
if  not  told,  never  will  be,  for  it  never  can  be.  The 
knowledge  or  conviction,  if  you  prefer  to  call  it  so, 
grows  on  me;  it  increases  with  the  increasing  light 
of  morning,  is  revealed  in  the  splendor  of  high  noon, 
deepens  in  the  pensive  summer  twilight,  and  rises  with 
the  tutelary  stars.  The  winds  tell  of  it  to  the  melan- 
choly trees;  the  waters  repeat  it  with  their  many  liquid 
voices.  It  is  written  in  cloudy  hieroglyphs  upon  the 
distant  sky;  it  is  the  shadow  thrown  upon  the  plain  of 
life  by  the  sun  of  hope  which  sinks  behind  my  heart — 
enlarging  and  to  enlarge,  darkening  and  to  increase  in 
darkness  until  the  night  of  death.  It  is — but  I  am 
getting  absurd. 

Shall  I  remain  a  bachelor  ?  dwindle  down  and  shrivel 
up  into  an  old  bachelor?  Never!  Since  I  cannot 
marry  my  own  wife,  I'll  marry  the  wife  of  somebody 
else;  and  if  I  could  only  find  the  wife  of  the  man  who 
married  my  wife,  I'd  marry  her  in  spite  of  fate.  And 
if  I  could  only  ride  about  in  the  cars  with  a  plenty  of 
nurses  and  children,  and  Thingamy  could  see  me  and 
know  my  theory,  I  should  be  perfectly  satisfied. 

Dear  reader,  take  warning  by  me;  study  my  theory; 
it  was  written  for  you,  and  for  the  whole  human  race. 
Try  to  cultivate  your  spontaneous,  unconscious  apper- 
ception. And  if  ever  you  sit  down  in  an  old  tavern 
porch  and  see  a  beautiful  young  lady  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street,  don't  wait  for  dinner,  but  go  right 

119 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES 

over  and  demand  her  in  marriage.  You  may  be  mis- 
taken; she  may  not  be  your  wife;  she  may  be  already 
married;  but  no  matter,  it  is  your  duty  to  make  the 
effort.  If  you  don't,  you'll  regret  it;  you  will  find 
yourself  in  my  predicament.  You  may  see  me  any  day 
struggling  through  the  weeds  of  my  uncle's  wheat-field, 
looking  and  feeling  unutterably  mean.  No  wonder; 
I  have  lost  my  wife! 


120 


FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX 

A  BEECH  grows  askant  the  Appomattox  that 
curves  around  the  foot  of  Uncle  Jim's  planta- 
tion. The  stream,  generally  muddy,  is  clear  now  as  a 
maiden's  eye.  Deep  under  the  bushy  banks,  it  flows 
with  a  still  surface,  but  a  strong  current,  a  moving 
mirror,  that  reflects  the  fair  October  skies,  and  every 
limb  and  leaf  of  the  overhanging  trees  in  beauty  not 
their  own,  for,  under  the  perfectly  outlined  forms  of 
branch  and  spray,  drooping  vines  and  fluttering  leaves, 
lie  the  mysterious,  immeasurable  depths  of  heaven. 
'Tis  a  strange  feeling  that  comes  over  a  man  as  he  looks 
down,  down  into  those  depths,  so  fathomless  so  won- 
drous lovely,  and  yet  so  near  at  hand — the  cunning 
trick  of  light  reflected  from  calm  water.  You  come 
back  with  a  start  when  you  remember  how  simple  it 
all  is. 

The  beech  I  spoke  of  is  of  great  age.  Poor  old  soul ! 
he  has  seen  his  best  days;  he  is  dying  now.  As  he 
bends  over  the  water,  with  his  lean  uplifted  arms 
stretched  out,  he  reminds  me  of  an  old  fellow  putting 
on  an  overcoat  that  is  too  tight  across  the  shoulders  for 
him.     I  fancy  I  can  hear  the  big,  piteous  splash  he 

121 


FISHING   IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

will  make  when  he  topples  over  into  the  river,  and  can 
see  his  great  corpse  floating  along,  the  naked  limbs 
thrust  up  appealingly,  helplessly,  from  his  watery 
grave,  till  the  negroes  come  and  catch  him,  and  cut 
him  up  with  brutal  axes,  and  burn  him  in  their  quarters 
'way  into  the  long  winter  nights.  But,  thank  good- 
ness! the  old  fellow  is  tough  and  gristly;  he  will  hang 
on  the  bank  many  and  many  a  day  yet,  and  I  hope  to 
catch  abundance  of  flatback  from  under  his  sheltering 
boughs  before  he  takes  his  final  plunge. 

The  best  thing  about  the  old  beech  is  this:  leaning 
over  so  far  from  the  bank,  the  better  to  look  at  himself, 
no  doubt  (he  must  have  been  vain  of  his  personal 
appearance  in  youth,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it,  nor 
blame  him  a  bit),  leaning  over  in  this  way,  he  has  been 
compelled  to  send  out  a  tremendous  growth  of  roots  to 
hold  on  by.  All  gnarled,  twisted,  and  interlaced,  these 
roots  form  as  nice  a  rustic  arm-chair  as  heart  could 
wish — the  best  place  to  fish  you  ever  saw.  You  can 
sit  down,  lean  back,  rest  your  feet,  do  anything  you 
please.  Then  the  seat  is  so  perfectly  clean.  And  it 
is  nicely  shaded,  too.  With  your  pole  fixed  in  a  crevice 
right  at  your  hand,  you  can  smoke  or  read,  prepared 
in  a  moment,  when  a  mullet  nibbles  to  take  him. 

As  Uncle  Jim's  plantation  was  once  a  part  of  the 
"Bizarre  Estate,"  this  old  beech  has  a  historical  value. 
I  look  upon  his  roots  with  great  respect.  Jack,  and 
Dick,  and  Judy,  and  Nancy  Randolph  have  reposed 
their  aristocratic  bones  on  these  same  roots  often  and 
often.  But  I  look  upon  these  roots  with  awe.  In  the 
far  past,  a  mightier  race  than  the  Randolphs  was  here. 

122 


FISHING   IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

Indians  and  Randolphs  alike  are  gone;  we  shall  see 
them  no  more.  In  fact,  I  never  saw  them  at  all;  but 
I  am  pleased  that  mine  eyes  have  dwelt  their  humble 
glances  on  those  venerated  roots,  so  honored  in  the 
days  of  yore. 

It  is  early  in  the  morning  when  "me  and  Billy 
Ivvins"  and  the  other  fellows  set  forth  in  the  direction 
of  the  old  beech.  The  air  is  crisp  and  cool.  One  of 
the  fellows  has  a  double-barrelled  gun.  The  morn,  like 
an  eastern  queen,  is  sumptuously  clad  in  blue  and 
gold;  the  sheen  of  her  robes  is  dazzling  sunlight,  and 
she  comes  from  her  tent  of  glistening,  silken,  celestial 
warp,  beaming  with  tender  smiles.  Billy  Ivvins  totes 
six  slender  pine  poles  on  his  left  shoulder,  and  a  eym- 
ling  full  of  the  best  and  biggest  fishing  worms  in  his 
right  hand.  The  woods,  painted  in  all  the  gorgeous 
dyes  of  autumn,  repose  on  the  distant  hills,  their  tops 
trembling  in  the  fresh  breeze.  One  of  the  party  carries 
a  cold  ash-cake  to  bait  the  hole  with.  The  day  is  beau- 
tiful exceedingly.  The  veil  of  dusky  silver,  the  haze  of 
Indian  summer,  is  rent  in  twain,  and  we  see  nature 
face  to  face,  in  the  unclouded  glory  of  her  beauty — 

Sweet  day!  so  calm,  so  cool,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky. 

I've  got  two  splendid  Woodall  pipes,  plenty  of  first- 
rate  smoking  tobacco,  and  a  box  of  German  matches 
in  my  pocket.  It  is  a  day  of  days  for  flatback,  pro- 
vided the  moon  is  right.  Flatback  won't  bite  on  the 
wane  of  the  moon;  nothing  but  nigger-knockers  bite 
then — nigger-knockers  and  eels. 

123 


FISHING  IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

However,  we  are  going  to  try,  moon  or  no  moon. 
Billy  Ivvins  swears  that  the  planetary  bodies  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  fish — it's  all  confounded  superstition. 

Arrived  at  the  beech,  the  lines  are  quickly  unwrapped 
from  the  poles,  the  hooks  (Sutherland's  best)  are  baited 
with  two  long  worms  each,  a  few  crumbs  of  bread  are 
cast  in  to  keep  the  roach  and  other  little  fish  busy;  out 
go  the  sinkers  as  far  to  the  middle  of  the  stream  as  the 
poles  will  allow,  the  corks  after  wabbling  for  a  little 
while  settle  down  and  set  jauntily  on  the  water;    the 
poles  are  fastened  between  the  roots,  and  the  irre- 
pressible piscatorial  conflict  begins.     Billy  Iwins  leans 
against  the  trunk  of  the  old  beech;   next  him  is  Billy 
Y.,  then  comes  Dr.  X.,  the  best  fisherman  of  the  party, 
and,  lastly,  myself,  perched  far  out  on  a  projecting 
root.     They  tell  me  the  root  is  rotten,  and  that  I  will 
fall  into  the  water;    but  I  know  my  weight  better. 
The  fish  don't  bite  fast.     I  predict  that  we  are  going 
to   have   bad   luck.     Billy  Y.   does   the  same   thing. 
Billy  Ivvins  swears  that  we  are  "boun'  to  take  'em." 
Dr.  X.  sits  perfectly  silent.     We  all  watch  our  corks: 
no  movement.     A  desultory  talk  springs  up,  mainly 
about  the  Harper's  Ferry  affair.     Billy  Iwins  swears 
that  an  attempt  will  be  made  to  rescue  "old  Brown." 
"He  is  of  the  opinion  that  the  country  is  full  of  aboli- 
tionists;  says  that  these  oil-cloth  and  table-cloth  men 
that  tramp  about  the  State  are  nothing  but  emissaries 
of  the  underground— they  ought  all  to  be  hung.     And 
all  these  Northern  preachers,  professors,  and  school- 
teachers, that  we  have  amongst  us,  ought  to  be  made 
to  swear  an  oath  of  allegiance  to  Virginia,  or  else  be 

124 


FISHING  IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

immediately  killed.  He  thinks  "Gizzard"  the  very 
man  for  the  present  crisis.  Ding  'em!  he'll  swing  'em. 
Gizzard's  good  grit  as  ever  fluttered.  If  Brown  is 
acquitted,  he  (Billy  I.)  will  be  one  of  twelve  men  to 
follow  him  and  shoot  him  on  sight,  wherever  found. 
Brown  ought  to  be  hung,  drawn,  and  quartered,  his 
head  stuck  over  the  penitentiary,  and  the  rest  of  him 
suspended  in  trees  in  various  parts  of  the  State,  a  ter- 
ror to  all  who  behold. 

"The  militia  ought  to  be  thoroughly  organized.  He 
wondered  why  old  Gizzard  had  not  done  this  before. 
Fine  every  man  ten  dollars  who  don't  attend  muster," 
etc.,  etc. 

Dr.  X.  thinks  he  has  a  nibble,  and  begs  Billy  to  stop 
talking,  which  he  does  reluctantly. 

We  all  admire  the  glorious  weather,  the  lovely  day, 
the  sweet  seclusion  by  the  riverside,  under  the  beechen 
boughs,  with  the  fresh  wind  pouring  its  invisible  flood 
over  our  heads  as  we  sit  under  the  bank,  and  shaking 
down  a  Dana?  shower  of  golden  leaves  from  the  trees. 

There  is  a  plenty  to  interest  and  charm  us  beside 
the  world  of  inanimate  nature  around  us. 

The  tree  tops  are  full  of  robins  eating  grapes.  How 
they  chirp,  and  flutter,  and  shriek,  and  dash  about!  as 
if  half  afraid  and  altogether  delighted,  like  a  parcel  of 
school-girls  bathing  in  a  shallow  creek.  Crows  by  the 
hundred  wing  their  level  flight  over  the  field  back  of 
us,  cawing  as  they  go.  They  are  preparing  to  hold  a 
caucus  in  the  pines  over  there.  Here  comes  a  gust  of 
blackbirds.  They  wheel  impetuously,  and  alight  in  an 
instant,  as  if  drilled,  high  on  the  limbs  of  a  dead  birch- 

125 


FISHING  IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

tree  right  opposite  us,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 
There  they  are,  all  in  a  lump,  the  black  rascals,  look- 
ing at  us  as  unconcernedly  as  you  please.  It  is  as 
much  as  we  can  do  to  keep  Billy  Y.  from  banging 
away  at  them.  But  it  will  never  do  to  scare  the  fish. 
Whew!  robins  and  blackbirds  go  off  in  a  tumultuous 
cloud. 

What's  the  matter  now?  Aha!  No  wonder  you 
flew  so  quickly,  my  little  fellows.  There's  a  hawk,  a 
big  gray  one,  comes  swooping  on  noiseless  wings  out  of 
the  sky.  By  jingo!  he's  lit  not  forty  feet  from  us. 
Shuh!  he's  gone,  without  a  sound,  before  Billy  Y.  can 
get  to  his  gun.  "Hallo!  hallo!  what's  that?"  "Ot- 
ter." "Otter  the  devil — it's  a  mus'rat.  No,  'taint — 
it's  a  duck."  "  'Taint  a  duck  either,  it's  a  didapper." 
"There  he  is;  there  he  is;  I  saw  him  when  he  rose." 
Billy  Y.  is  after  him;  but  he  might  as  well  try  to  shoot 
a  witch  without  a  silver  bullet.  We  hear  his  gun  go 
off,  and  he  comes  back  presently  bringing  a  field-lark 
in  his  hand,  the  yellow  breast  all  rumpled,  and  the 
brown  wings  hanging  limp  and  lifeless. 

Meantime  Dr.  X.  has  caught  one  or  two  fish — small 
ones — whitesides.  Billy  Iwins,  in  great  wrath,  has 
pulled  out  a  hideous  nigger-knocker,  and  I  have  had  a 
glorious  nibble.  Billy  Y.  is  in  bad  luck;  not  a  thing 
has  touched  his  "stopper";  he  is  restless,  and  keeps 
moving  about,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  that  exem- 
plary fisherman  Dr.  X.,  a  model  of  quietness  and  taci- 
turnity. Billy  Iwins  swears  that  Billy  Y.  has  got  the 
"evil  hand,"  and  that's  the  reason  the  fish  won't  bite 
at  anything  he  has  touched.     Whereupon  I  make  a 

126 


FISHING  IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

pun,  and  say  that  Billy  Y.'s  evil  hand  has  given  his 
pole  the  pole-evil.  Billy  Ivvins  swears  he  will  kill  me 
for  a  fool. 

We  hear  a  squirrel  barking  down  the  river,  and  the 
"evil  hand"  goes  after  him,  and  brings  him.  The 
fish  are  beginning  to  bite  pretty  well — one  or  two 
medium-sized  flatback  have  been  landed  by  Dr.  X. 
Again  there  is  silence,  interrupted  only  by  the  restless 
and  unlucky  Billy  Y.,  and  two  little  negro  girls  who 
are  picking  peas  in  the  cornfield  across  the  river.  The 
corn  has  been  topped,  and  stripped  of  its  broad  fodder 
blades,  each  stalk  holds  out  a  heavy  yellow  pouch, 
giving  promise  of  endless  pone  for  the  coming  year. 
A  slight  rustle  is  heard  in  the  weeds  over  the  way. 
Perhaps  the  partridges  are  there — a  glorious  flock,  not 
less  than  a  hundred,  have  grown  up  in  Uncle  Jim's 
plantation  during  the  summer,  and  have  come  down 
to  spend  the  fall  in  the  low-grounds.  But  while  we 
look,  a  small  inquisitive  head,  with  a  Roman  crest, 
and  an  eye  half  hidden  in  a  white  circlet,  peers  out  of 
the  weeds;  and  presently  a  sinuous,  graceful  neck  is 
lifted  high,  disclosing  a  breast  cuirassed  in  blue,  bur- 
nished steel;  it  is  a  lordly  peacock,  with  his  mate, 
anxiously  inquiring  the  meaning  of  those  strange  forms 
seated  on  the  old  root  over  against  him.  And  now  a 
shadow  with  expanded  wings  is  seen  in  the  limpid 
depths  of  the  stream.  We  look  up,  and  lo!  far,  far 
aloft  in  the  bright  October  heavens  there  floats,  on 
stretched  unmoving  pinions,  a  buzzard — that  hungry 
black  republican  democrat  of  the  skies — surveying  the 
wide  territory  below  him,  intent  on  practical  squatter 

127 


FISHING  IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

sovereignty,  and  seeking  where  he  may  intervene  to 
protect  the  carcass  of  a  deceased  cow  or  mule.  Several 
of  them,  belonging  to  Uncle  Jim,  having  paid  the  for- 
feit of  too  deep  affection  for  poisonous  mushrooms, 
now  lie  stark  and  cold  in  the  pines  beyond  the  tobacco- 
house.  Billy  Y.  proposes  "unfriendly  legislation"  in 
the  shape  of  three  fingers  of  shot;  but  as  it  is  impor- 
tant to  preserve  the  harmony  of  the  party  (the  fishing 
party),  Senator  Douglas — I  beg  pardon,  I  should  have 
said  the  buzzard — is  permitted  to  go  on  his  way  unmo- 
lested. 

Our  lines  are  continually  disturbed  by  dead  leaves. 
They  appear  to  love  to  hang  around  the  corks,  like  a 
parcel  of  red-nosed  topers  round  a  bottle.  As  they 
come  sailing  down  the  river,  myriads  in  number,  and 
of  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  one  can't  help  thinking 
that  somebody  has  split  a  quilting  up  the  stream,  and 
is  naturally  anxious  to  see  the  girls,  and  find  out  how 
the  accident  occurred.  I'll  bet  there  are  some  boys 
up  there,  and  that  the  quilting  frame,  baskets  of  scraps, 
etc.,  got  upset  while  a  tremendous  romping  was  going 
on. 

"Hush!"  says  Dr.  X.  (Nobody  has  said  a  word.) 
"I've  got  a  bite,"  he  goes  on,  calmly;  "that's  a  flat- 
back.  I  know  by  the  way  he  bites,  and  I  shall  cer- 
tainly catch  him."  We  look — the  cork  gives  scarcely 
a  sign,  and  the  next  moment  out  comes  a  dripping 
ingot  of  silver,  glistening  brightly  in  the  sun.  The 
ingot  proves  to  be  a  goodly  flatback,  and  is  soon 
thrown  high  and  dry  on  the  bank.  Billy  Iwins  swears 
that  the  p'int  of  his  hook  is  out,  and  that's  the  reason 

'       128 


FISHING   IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

the  fish  haven't  bit  at  him  this  half-hour.  He  pulls 
at  length,  and  up  conies  a  tolerable  sized  flatback, 
who  had  been  quietly  sucking  all  the  time.  Now  I 
have  a  decided  nibble.  "It's  nothing  but  a  roach," 
says  Billy.  "Give  him  plenty  of  time,"  says  the  doc- 
tor. So  I  wait  till  I  can  wait  no  longer,  and  then 
jerk;  and  by  Jove!  it's  a  splendid  mullet.  The  fish  are 
beginning  to  bite  in  earnest;  everybody  catches  them 
except  Billy  with  the  "evil  hand";  not  even  a  nigger- 
knocker  will  bite  at  him.  And  the  fish  get  bigger  and 
bigger,  pull  stronger  and  stronger.  Soon  the  doctor 
hangs  a  whaler — a  flatback  sixteen  inches  long.  How 
he  pulls!  How  he  bends  the  pole!  "Let  him  play,  let 
him  play!"  is  the  cry,  and  we  all  draw  out  our  lines  to 
give  him  room.  At  last  he  is  wearied  out;  the  doctor 
draws  him  to  the  surface,  and  he  lies  fully  exposed  to 
view,  a  prodigious  fellow.  He  has  given  up  entirely  and 
struggles  no  more.  Just  at  this  crisis,  the  hook  slips 
out  of  his  side  where,  it  had  accidentally  caught,  and 
the  noble  fish  is  lost.  But  flatback  magnus  don't  know 
he  is  loose.  There  he  lies,  resigned  to  his  fate.  A 
second  more,  he  wriggles  his  tail  and  darts  out  of  sight 
under  the  water.  There  is  a  general  outcry  of  disap- 
pointment and  vexation.  But  all  we  have  to  do  is  to 
make  up  for  lost  time;  so  we  throw  in  again,  and  it  is 
not  long  before  we  are  rewarded  for  our  pains.  The 
fish  we  are  catching  now  are  all  of  good  size,  twelve  or 
fourteen  inches  long,  and  upon  my  word  they  do  pull 
gallantly.  It  is  equal  almost  to  trouting.  Billy  Ivvins 
swears  that  the  flatback  in  this  hole  are  superior  to 
any  other  in  the  river — they  are  of  pure  Castilian  blood, 

129 


FISHING   IN   THE   APPOMATTOX 

game  and  mettlesome  as  a  wild  horse  when  he  is  first 
lassoed. 

"Is  that  the  cars  ?"  Yes,  it  is  the  train  from  Lynch- 
burg. It  is  half-past  one  o'clock — high  time  for  din- 
ner. And  while  the  roaring  of  the  train  is  still  in  our 
ears,  here  comes  Aunt  Lockey  from  the  house,  with  a 
heavy  basket,  little  Ada  staggering  behind  her  under 
the  weight  of  a  big  bucket  of  fresh  spring-water.  An 
old  plank  makes  a  good  dinner- table;  the  plates  and 
dishes,  with  excellent  fried  ham,  chicken  that  needs 
only  a  little  salt,  sweet-potatoes,  bread,  and  sweet 
pickles,  make  up  the  repast,  which  we  devour  with 
hearty  relish,  watching  our  corks  all  the  time.  But 
the  fish  are  too  well-bred  to  interrupt  gentlemen  while 
they  are  dining.  There's  not  a  single  bite  until  we  are 
through  with  our  meal  and  have  lighted  our  pipes. 
Even  then  the  fish  trouble  us  very  little.  Doubtless 
they  are  taking  a  siesta,  for  it  is  a  well-known  fact  that 
fish  never  bite  well  from  after  dinner  until  an  hour  or 
two  before  sunset.  We  wait  patiently.  The  slant  sun- 
beams creep  around  the  little  tree  to  our  left,  and  fall 
upon  the  water  above  the  pool. 

The  biting  commences  again,  but  I  am  chilled  and 
go  up  the  bank  to  walk  about  and  warm  myself.  As 
the  fish  are  tossed  up,  I  can  but  admire  them.  The 
"flatback,"  you  know,  is  called  "sucker"  in  some 
parts  of  the  country,  and,  with  its  broad,  mottled, 
green  back,  its  large  fins  and  black  eyes,  makes  as  pretty 
a  fish  as  any  that  swim  in  our  waters.  It  is  easily 
caught,  if  you  have  patience.  The  mullet  is  a  beau- 
tiful fish.     Its  glistening  sides  of  silver  mail  and  its 

130 


FISHING   IN   THE   APPOMATTOX 

broad,  purple  fins,  are  a  delight  to  look  at.  All  fish 
are  beautiful,  on  account  of  their  clean,  healthy  look; 
but  these  we  are  catching  seem  peculiarly  so.  What 
unpolluted  blood  flows  in  their  veins !  how  free  they  are 
from  the  aches,  the  ills,  the  slow,  consuming  diseases 
of  human  kind !  They  owe  no  money,  buy  no  clothes, 
pay  nothing  for  board,  rent  no  houses,  are  never  taxed, 
never  have  any  accounts  at  the  dry-goods  stores,  are 
never  troubled  about  bonnets  for  their  wives,  or  school- 
ing for  their  children,  own  no  land  and  no  negroes, 
care  nothing  about  old  Brown,  are  not  at  all  excited 
about  the  election  in  1860,  and  don't  have  to  get  up,  of 
a  cold  winter's  morning,  and  wash  their  faces  in  a  tin 
pan.  It  is  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  drag  them  out  of  their 
homes  into  this  dirty  upper  world.  How  soon  their 
glory  departs,  their  lustre  fades!  Their  silver  coats 
are  soon  begrimed  with  dust,  and  even  their  round, 
undefended  eyes,  are  filled  with  it.  Pity,  pity,  they 
haven't  got  eyelids.  I  declare  it  hurts  me  to  see  them 
flapping  vainly  to  get  back  into  the  water,  as  they  lie 
gasping  and  panting  on  the  bank.  And  how  sorrowful 
their  poor  mouths  look — did  you  ever  notice  them  ? 

Another  name  for  the  nigger-knocker  is  hogfish, 
and  it  is  by  far  the  ugliest  tenant  of  the  Virginia  waters. 
Catfish  are  sweet  and  pretty  compared  to  nigger- 
knockers.  They  have  a  mean  poisonous  look.  Their 
heads  are  ragged  and  hideous  beyond  expression,  re- 
minding me  of  the  stump  of  a  thumb  after  the  end  has 
been  blown  off  by  a  pistol,  more  than  any  thing  else  I 
can  think  of. 

But  now  the  shades  are  deepening  fast;   it  is  getting 

131 


FISHING   IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

really  cold;  the  water,  with  its  dark  reflections,  looks 
like  a  wondrous  picture  in  Indian  ink.  We  hear  the 
dull  tinkle  of  the  bells,  as  the  cows  pace  slowly  to  the 
"cuppen."  Still,  the  fish  bite.  We  can  scarcely  see 
our  corks,  but  we  are  loath  to  leave.  Billy  Iwins  hangs 
a  monster  flatback;  he  pulls  like  mad;  as  he  rushes 
to  and  fro  under  the  water,  the  pole  bends  like  a  bow, 
and  fairly  cracks  under  his  struggles;  but  Billy  Iwins 
knows  how  to  manage  him.  At  last  he  is  completely 
exhausted,  and  struggles  no  more.  Cautiously,  slowly, 
Billy  draws  him  up;  he  is  fairly  out  of  the  water,  a 
glorious  fellow,  eighteen  inches  long  at  the  very  least, 
and  hangs  as  still  as  death.  But  ere  his  tail  is  six 
inches  from  the  water,  the  treacherous  snood  snaps, 
down  he  drops,  and  is  gone  for  ever.  You  just  ought 
to  have  heard  Billy  Iwins  swear.  I  have  heard  many 
men  curse,  such  as  congressmen,  hack  drivers,  and 
gamblers,  but  none  of  them  ever  equalled  Billy  Iwins 
on  this  occasion — 

"No  ancient  devil, 
Plunged  to  the  chin,  when  burning  hot, 
Into  a  holy  water  pot; 
Could  so  blaspheme,  or  fire  a  volley 
Of  oaths  so  dire  and  melancholy," 

as  Billy  Iwins  fired  when  that  snood  snapped  and  that 
flatback  fell  back  into  the  Appomattox. 

But  now  we  are  compelled  to  leave.  We  fix  up  our 
tackle  in  haste,  and  put  out  at  high  speed,  one  of  the 
party  carrying  the  mighty  string  of  flatback,  mullet, 
and  nigger-knockers;    the  others  taking  charge  of  the 

132 


FISHING  IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

guns,  etc.  A  little  way  down  the  river  bank,  we  dis- 
cover what  appears  to  be  a  bundle  of  fodder  set  up  on 
the  end  to  scare  the  fish  away  from  three  or  four  poles 
that  hang  over  the  water.  It  proves  to  be  Uncle  Jim, 
in  a  battered  wool  hat  and  a  sun-cured  old  overcoat, 
with  his  feet  wrapped  up  in  a  blanket  to  keep  them 
warm.  The  old  fellow  has  displayed  his  skill  by  catch- 
ing nearly  as  many  fish  as  all  of  us  boys  together. 
Adding  his  fish  to  our  string,  we  set  forth  again  at  a 
topping  pace,  to  start  the  circulation,  which  has  be- 
come stagnant  by  long  sitting  on  the  beech  root.  Be- 
sides, it  is  very  cold. 

By  the  time  we  reach  a  snug  little  bachelor  estab- 
lishment, the  stars  are  sparkling  in  the  skies,  and  we 
are  warm  as  toasts  from  the  rapid  two-mile  walk. 
Supper  is  soon  served.  We  partake  of  it  sparingly  and 
go  to  Farmville  to  hear  old  Joe  Sweeny.  We  find  that 
the  old  fellow  has  let  down;  but  he  is  welcome  to  our 
small  change  for  the  sake  of  what  he  used  to  be  when 
he  was  young  and  in  his  prime. 

After  the  concert  is  over  we  repair  to  the  Randolph 
House,  take  a  good  big  drink  of  excellent  Bumgardner 
— a  whiskey  that  is  said  to  have  power  almost  to  raise 
the  dead.  We  pay  our  respects  to  Messrs.  Pryor  and 
Goode  (it  is  the  night  before  election  day),  and  find 
both  of  them  pretty  well  used  up,  and  accordingly 
leave  them  to  their  much  needed  rest.  We  return  to 
the  bachelor  establishment,  and  about  eleven  o'clock 
sit  down  to  a  magnificent  flatback  supper;  and  we 
enjoy  it  as  only  Appomattox  flatback  fishermen  can 
enjoy  it.     At  the  close  of  his  tenth  cup  of  coffee,  Billy 

133 


FISHING  IN  THE   APPOMATTOX 

Ivvins  looks  over  a  lofty  pile  of  flatback  bones,  and 
gets  very  sick.  He  swears  that  flatback  is  the  greatest 
eating  in  the  world.  He  wishes  he  may  be  teetotally 
dad-blasted  into  everlasting  dad-blamenation  if  they 
ain't  superior  even  to  shadses.  The  skulls  of  flatback 
parched  would  make  splendid  coffee.  Flatback  is  the 
meat  of  all  meats  for  married  men  to  eat.  He  intended 
to  get  him  a  large  wagon  and  fill  it  with  flatback,  and 
get  married  and  start  in  the  morning  for  Texas,  etc., 
etc. 

And  so  ended  the  great  "ketchin'  of  flatback,  mul- 
let, and  nigger-knockers,  in  the  Appomattox." 


134 


VI 
AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR 

THE  RECORD  OF  A  MAN  WHO  SHIVERED  THROUGH  THE 
MANASSAS   CAMPAIGN. 

T^X-GOVERNOR  JAMES  L.  KEMPER  tells  a  war 
-*-"'  story  that  is  so  very  good  I  think  he  must  have 
invented  it.  Yet  it  is  so  true  to  nature  that  it  ought  to 
have  happened  a  hundred,  nay,  a  thousand  times. 
He  says  that  on  the  night  of  the  retreat  from  Williams- 
burg in  1862,  when  men  and  officers  were  mixed  up 
indiscriminately  in  the  muddy  road,  with  the  rain  fall- 
ing heavily  on  them,  and  no  man  knew  his  neighbor, 
a  soldier  near  him  (General  Kemper)  pulled  himself 
out  of  the  mire,  and  going  up  to  the  fence  on  the  road- 
side dropped  his  musket  to  the  ground,  and,  in  accents 
of  the  most  intense  sincerity,  exclaimed: 

"Well,  if  ever  I  love  another  country  ag'in,  damn 
me!" 

Much  the  same  feeling  came  over  me  the  first  night 
I  slept,  or  tried  to  sleep,  at  the  new  fair-grounds,  in 
the  suburbs  of  Richmond,  which  had  been  turned  into 
a  camp  of  instruction,  and  was  called  Camp  Lee.  My 
friend,  Lieutenant  Latham,  of  Lynchburg  (afterward 
Acting  Judge  Advocate  General  of  the  Army  of  North- 

135 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

ern  Virginia),  and  I  slept  under  the  same  blanket  on 
the  upper  floor  of  one  of  the  fair-ground  buildings. 
The  month  was  April,  the  night  was  chill,  the  air  keen, 
the  blanket  thin,  the  planks  hard.  Moreover,  I  had 
eaten  freely  of  hard  tack  and  drunk  still  more  freely  of 
cold  water,  which  was  bad  for  my  dyspepsia. 

Truth  is,  there  was  a  big  disgust  upon  me,  more  on 
account  of  my  "sojer  clothes,"  I  think,  than  anything 
else.  Nature  had  not  fitted  me  for  a  roundabout  with 
brass  buttons — a  fact  which  the  young  ladies  discovered 
as  we  marched  past  them  and  their  waving  'kerchiefs 
on  our  way  to  Camp  Lee.  Besides,  I  had  always 
thought  "sojering"  tomfoolery  anyhow.  So  when  the 
night  wind  blew  keen  upon  my  ribs,  my  purpose  to 
love  any  more  countries  diminished  as  sensibly  as  did 
the  soldier's  on  the  Williamsburg  road,  though  I  did 
not  formulate  it  in  such  spirited  terms  as  his.  Yet  I 
loved  my  country,  I  verily  believe,  as  much  as  any  man 
on  the  ground  at  Camp  Lee — would  have  died  for  her; 
but  not  by  freezing,  or,  worse  still,  by  filth.  Of  this 
last,  more  anon.  That  others  shared  my  feelings  was 
proved  by  V.  Dabney.  In  consequence  of  his  huge 
bulky  figure,  his  jolly  good  nature  and  his  fund  of  wit, 

V was  a  conspicuous  figure  in  the  camp.     He  had 

been  raised  in  luxury.  His  father,  a  rich  Mississippi 
planter,  had  lavished  money  on  him,  and  actually 
urged  him  into  extravagance.  His  ideal  of  life  was  a 
hotel  in  Paris,  and  this  sort  of  thing  didn't  suit  him  at 
all.     But  his  sense  of  duty  was  supreme. 

"Boys,"  he  would  say,  as  he  took  his  short  meer- 
schaum from  his  mouth  and  drew  up  his  robust  figure 

13G 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

to  its  full  height,  "Boys,  I  want  you  distinctly  to  un- 
derstand— this  is  my  last  war!  This  is  my  first,  and  I 
am  going  to  see  it  through  to  the  bitter  end,  but  after 
this  no  more  war,  no  more  sleeping  in  straw  for  V.  D. 
No,  sir!" 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  went  through  the  war, 
rising  to  a  captaincy  on  the  staff  of  Gordon,  of  Geor- 
gia, and  now  teaches  school  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

"Sleeping  on  straw!"  Aye,  that  was  the  rub.  To 
be  sure  we  had  ticks,  but  they  were  about  as  thin  as  the 
insect  of  that  name;  there  were  about  nine  of  us  to  a 
tent — good  large  Sibley  tents  we  had  at  first — and  not 
a  night-shirt  among  the  whole  nine.  Reveille  was 
another  misery.  I  was  three-and-thirty  years  of  age, 
a  born  invalid,  whose  habit  had  been  to  rise  late,  bathe 
leisurely,  and  eat  breakfast  after  everybody  else  was 
done.  To  get  up  at  dawn  to  the  sound  of  fife  and 
drum,  to  wash  my  face  in  a  hurry  in  a  tin  basin,  wipe 
on  a  wet  towel,  and  go  forth  with  a  suffocated  skin 
and  a  sense  of  uncleanness  to  be  squad-drilled  by  a  fat 
little  cadet,  young  enough  to  be  my  son,  of  the  Virginia 
Military  Institute,  that,  indeed,  was  misery.  How  I 
hated  that  little  cadet!  He  was  always  so  wide-awake, 
so  clean,  so  interested  in  the  drill ;  his  coat  tails  were  so 
short  and  sharp,  and  his  hands  looked  so  big  in  white 
gloves.  He  made  me  sick.  What  the  deuce  did  I 
care  about  learning  how  to  "hold  my  piece,"  to  "load 
in  nine  times,"  and  all  that?  I  was  furious;  but  at 
the  same  time  I  got  up  a  big  appetite  for  breakfast, 
which  was  generally  good,  for  we  lived  pretty  well  at 
Camp  Lee. 

137 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

I  recall  a  single  incident  at  Camp  Lee.  The  com- 
pany next  to  ours  was  from  Campbell  County,  I  think, 
and  composed  almost  wholly  of  illiterate  countrymen. 
Hearing  an  animated  conversation  going  on  toward 
their  camp-fire  one  night,  I  drew  nigh  and  listened. 
The  causes  that  led  to  the  war  were  being  discussed, 
and  the  principal  speaker,  a  sergeant,  gave  an  account 
of  the  formation  of  our  government  and  the  true  theory 
of  its  working  on  States-rights  principles  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  a  constitutional  lawyer.  On  in- 
quiry I  learned  that  this  sergeant  was  by  trade  a  plas- 
terer, and  what  he  knew  about  the  government  he  had 
learned  from  stump  speakers.  He  was  a  pretty  fair 
specimen  of  the  average  Confederate  soldier,  who  knew 
what  he  was  about  when  he  entered  into  the  war. 

One  morning  news  came  that  we  had  been  ordered 
to  Manassas.  It  was  true.  I  was  glad — anything  for 
a  change. 

Garland's  Battalion,  afterward  the  Eleventh  Vir- 
ginia Regiment,  was  the  first  organized  body  of  troops 
sent  to  Manassas.  The  battalion  was  composed  of 
Company  A,  the  Rifle  Greys;  Company  B,  the  Home 
Guard  (both  of  Lynchburg);  the  Fincastle  Rifles,  a 
Campbell  County  company,  and  possibly  one  from 
Pittsylvania  County,  but  I  cannot  be  certain.  All  that 
I  remember  is  that  there  were  four  or  five  companies. 
There  was  some  little  grumbling  in  our  company,  and, 
perhaps,  others,  when  it  became  known  that  Garland 
was  to  command  the  battalion,  and  this  discontent 
deepened  when  he  obtained  the  appointment  of  colonel. 
It  was  loudly  whispered  that  he  had  intrigued  for  the 

138 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

appointment.  No  one  doubted  his  capacity,  for  he 
was  a  graduate  of  the  Virginia  Military  Institute,  and 
a  young  lawyer  of  remarkable  intelligence,  but,  unfor- 
tunately, he  "lacked  grit."  Whereas,  said  the  grum- 
blers, the  captain  of  Company  A,  Maurice  S.  Lang- 
horne,  was,  like  all  the  other  Langhornes,  brave  as  a 
lion. 

This  was  the  talk.  I  give  it  as  an  illustration  of  the 
mistake  constantly  made  at  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
that  animal  bravery  was  the  main  requisite  in  a  soldier. 
What  a  mistake!  Bullies  ever  ready  for  a  brawl  re- 
peatedly proved  arrant  cowards  on  the  field,  while  the 
cowards,  so-called,  turned  out  to  be  the  most  gallant 
and  skilled  of  soldiers.  Samuel  Garland  was  neither 
coward  nor  bully,  but  a  refined,  scholarly  gentleman, 
whose  courage  in  action  was  so  conspicuous  and  whose 
capacity  so  marked  that  when  he  fell  at  Boonsboro',  in 
the  second  year  of  the  war,  he  was  acting  major-general, 
and  deemed  one  of  the  most  promising  young  officers 
in  the  whole  army.  In  his  native  city  his  memory  is 
sacred;  he  is  beloved  and  revered  beyond  any  soldier 
that  left  that  portion  of  the  State.  His  name  is  never 
mentioned  without  honor  and  tenderness. 

It  must  have  been  mid-day  or  earlier  when  we  left 
Richmond  on  a  train  of  box-cars,  with  tents,  camp 
equipage,  etc.,  amid  great  cheering  and  enthusiasm 
for  this,  mark  you,  was  war,  real  war,  and  no  fooling 
about  it.  Oh!  what  asses  men  are!  as  if  that  were 
anything  to  be  jolly  about!  We  went  slowly  along, 
pausing  at  every  station  to  let  the  girls  see  us,  give  us 
bouquets,  and  wave  their  handkerchiefs  at  us.     Being 

139 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

an  invalid,  I  was  allowed  a  seat  in  a  passenger  car  with 
the  officers,  but  as  the  hot  May  afternoon  wore  away 
I  felt  worse  and  worse.  It  was  night  when  we  reached 
Gordonsville,  seventy-six  miles  from  Richmond,  and 
then  occurred  a  long  halt.  Dr.  Chalmers,  who  had 
heard  me  complain  about  my  throat,  came  to  my  seat 
and  felt  my  pulse. 

"You  have  decided  fever,"  said  he,  "and  the  best 
thing  you  can  do  is  to  get  out  here  and  lie  over  till  you 
get  well.     I  will  leave  some  medicine  with  you." 

Words  more  welcome  never  issued  from  mortal  lips 
— no,  not  even  when  my  lady-love  said  "yes."  There 
was  a  good  hotel  at  Gordonsville — it  is  there  now,  and 
I  never  pass  it  without  a  benediction — kept  by  a  man 
named  Omohundro,  who  was  called  "M'hundrer"  for 
short.  Into  that  hotel,  and  upstairs  to  a  second  story 
room,  I  hurried  with  all  speed.  "Wouldn't  I  have 
supper?"  inquired  M'hundrer.  No,  but  a  bucket  or  a 
tub  of  hot  water  by  a  negro  boy. 

The  bathing  over — how  I  enjoyed  it!  I  dismissed 
the  boy,  put  on  a  night-shirt  that  had  been  dying  for 
three  weeks — at  least  I  had  been  dying  for  it — blew 
out  the  light,  a  wood  fire  was  on  the  hearth,  and  got 
into  bed.  The  sweet  languor  of  fever  was  on  me,  the 
warm  bath  had  softened  my  whole  nature,  bodily  and 
spiritually,  my  skin  began  to  breathe  once  more,  the 
odor  of  the  clean  pillow-cases  was  more  delicious  than 
roses  or  lilies,  and  as  I  stretched  myself  out  at  full 
length  I  actually  tasted  the  clean  sheets  clear  down  to 
my  toes.  You  may  talk  about  happiness,  but  there 
is  no  greater  happiness   than  I  experienced  at   that 

140 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

moment.  What  heaven  may  be  I  know  not,  but  that 
was  heaven  enough  for  me.  I  blessed  Chalmers  for 
advising  me  to  stop,  blessed  the  negro  boy,  blessed 
M'hundrer,  the  hot  water,  the  pillows,  the  sheets,  the 
whole  world,  and  went  to  sleep  vowing  that  never 
again  while  life  lasted  would  I  sleep  in  anything  but 
clean  sheets,  be  the  consequences  what  they  might  to 
the  Southern  Confederacy. 

I  remained  there  two  or  three  days,  taking  as  little 
medicine  as  possible  and  getting  well  as  slowly  as  possi- 
ble. During  my  stay  a  number  of  trains  went  by  on 
their  way  to  Richmond,  laden  with  the  spoils  of  the 
arsenal  and  workshops  at  Harper's  Ferry— guns,  am- 
munition and  machinery  that  were  invaluable  to  us. 

I  believe  that  Garland  found  Captain  Lay  with  a 
part  of  the  Powhatan  Troop  at  Manassas — certainly  the 
place  had  been  picketed  for  a  few  weeks— but  that  was 
all.     Its   strategic   importance   seemed   to   have   been 
overlooked.     On  my  arrival  I  found  the  boys  com- 
fortably quartered  in  tents  and  enjoying  the  contents 
of  boxes  of  good  things,  which  already  had  begun  com- 
ing from  home.     In  a  little  store  at  the  station  they  had 
discovered  a  lot  of  delicious  cherry  brandy,  which  they 
were  dispatching  with  thoughtless  haste.     Rigid  mili- 
tary rule  was  not  yet  enforced,  and  the  boys  had  a 
good  time.     I  saw  no  fun  in  it.     The  battalion  drill 
bore  heavily  upon  me;    Garland  constantly  forgot  to 
give  the  order  to  shift  our  guns  from  a  shoulder  to  a 
support.     This  gave  me  great  pain,  made  me  very 
mad,  and  threw  me  into  a  perspiration,  which,  owing  to 
my  feeble  circulation,  was  easily  checked  by  the  cold 

141 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

breeze  from  the  Bull  Run  Mountain,  and  thereby  put 
me  in  jeopardy  of  pneumonia.  Moreover,  I  longed  for 
my  night-shirt  and  the  clean  bed  at  Gordonsville.  The 
situation  was  another  source  of  trouble  to  me.  After 
brooding  over  it  a  good  while  I  got  my  friend  Latham 
to  write,  at  my  dictation,  a  letter  to  John  M.  Daniel's 
paper,  the  Richmond  Examiner.  The  letter  was  not 
printed,  but  handed  to  General  Lee,  and  additional 
troops  began  to  come  rapidly — one  or  two  South  Caro- 
lina regiments,  the  First  Virginia  Regiment,  Captain 
Shields's  company  of  Richmond  Howitzers,  Latham's 
Lynchburg  Battery,  in  all  of  which,  except  the  regi- 
ments from  South  Carolina,  we  had  hosts  of  friends. 
The  more  men  the  sicker  I  got,  and  the  further  re- 
moved from  that  solitude  which  was  the  delight  of  my 
life.  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  desert,  but  to  get 
killed  at  the  first  opportunity.  I  might  get  a  clean 
shirt,  and  would  certainly  get,  in  the  grave,  all  the 
solitude  I  wanted. 

Beauregard  soon  took  command.  This  was  a  com- 
fort to  us  all.  We  felt  safe.  About  this  time,  too,  the 
wives  and  sisters  of  a  number  of  officers  came  from 
Lynchburg  on  a  visit  to  the  camp.  That  was  great  joy 
to  us  all.  Lieutenant  Latham's  little  son,  barely  two 
years  old,  and  dressed  in  full  Rifle  Grey  uniform,  was 
the  lion  of  the  hour.  The  ladies  looked  lovely.  Such 
a  relief  after  a  surfeit  of  men;  our  eyes  fairly  feasted 
on  them.  Other  ladies  put  in  an  appearance  from 
time  to  time.  Returning  from  Bristoe,  where  I  had 
gone  to  bathe,  my  eyes  fell  on  three  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful  human  beings   they  had  ever  beheld.     Beautiful 

142 


AN   UXRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

at  any  time  and  place,  they  were  now  inexpressibly  so 
by  reason  of  the  fact  that  women  were  such  a  rarity 
in  camp.  They  were  bright  figures  on  a  background 
of  many  thousand  dingy,  not  to  say  dirty,  men.  If  I 
go  to  heaven — I  hope  I  may — the  angels  themselves 
will  hardly  look  more  lovely  than  those  young  ladies 
did  that  solitary  afternoon.  I  was  most  anxious  to 
know  their  names.  They  were  the  Misses  Carey — 
Hetty  and  Jennie  Carey,  of  Baltimore,  and  Constance, 
their  cousin,  of  Alexandria.  No  man  can  form  an 
idea  of  the  rapture  which  the  sight  of  a  woman  will 
bring  him  until  he  absents  himself  from  the  sex  for  a 
long  time.  He  can  then  perfectly  understand  the  story 
about  the  ecstatic  dance  in  which  some  California 
miners  indulged  when  they  unexpectedly  came  upon  an 
old  straw  bonnet  in  the  road.  Pretty  women  head  the 
list  of  earthly  delights. 

Over  and  over  I  heard  the  order  read  at  dress  parade, 
all  closing  with  the  formula,  "  By  command  of  General 
Beauregard,  Thomas  Jordan,  A.  A.  G."  This  went 
on  for  some  weeks  without  attracting  any  special  at- 
tention on  my  part.  At  last  some  one  said  in  my  hear- 
ing: "Beauregard's  adjutant  is  a  Virginian."  I 
pricked  up  my  ears.  "  Wonder  if  he  can  be  the  Cap- 
tain Jordan  I  knew  in  Washington?  I'll  go  and  see," 
I  said  to  myself.  Colonel,  afterward  General,  Jordan 
received  me  most  cordially,  dirty  private  though  I  was. 
He  was,  as  usual,  very  busy.  "Sit  down  a  minute.  I 
want  presently  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you."  My 
prophetic  soul  told  me  something  good  was  coming,  and, 
when,  after  some  preliminary  talk  about  unimportant 

143 


AN  UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

matters,  he  said:   "So  you  are  a  'high  private  in  the 
rear  rank?'  " 

"Yes,"  was  my  reply. 

"Aren't  you  tired  of  drilling?" 

"Tired  to  death." 

"Well,  you  are  the  very  man  I  want.  Certain  letters 
and  papers  have  to  be  written  in  this  office  which  ought 
to  be  done  by  a  man  of  literary  training,  and  you  are 
just  that  person.  I'll  have  you  detailed  at  once,  and 
you  must  report  here  in  the  morning.  Excuse  me  now, 
I  am  very  busy."  Indeed,  he  was  the  busiest  man  I 
almost  ever  saw,  and  to-day  in  the  office  of  the  Mining 
Record,  of  New  York,  he  is  as  busy  as  ever.  A  more 
indefatigable  worker  than  General  Thomas  Jordan  it 
would  be  hard,  if  not  impossible,  to  find. 

My  duties  at  first  were  very  light.  I  ate  and  slept  in 
camp  as  before,  reported  at  my  leisure  every  morning 
at  head-quarters,  and  did  any  writing  that  was  required 
of  me,  General  Jordan's  clerks  being  fully  competent 
to  do  the  great  bulk  of  the  work  in  his  office.  The 
principal  of  these  clerks  was  quite  a  young  man,  seven- 
teen or  eighteen,  perhaps,  and  was  named  Smith — 
Clifton  Smith,  of  Alexandria,  Va. — and  a  most  assidu- 
ous and  faithful  youth  he  was.  He  is  now  a  prosper- 
ous broker  in  New  York.  After  midnight  Jordan  was 
a  perfect  owl;  there  were  always  papers  and  letters  of 
a  particular  character,  in  the  preparation  of  which  I 
could  be  of  service.  We  got  through  with  them  gener- 
ally by  one  a.m.,  then  had  a  little  chat,  sometimes, 
though  not  often,  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  water,  and 
then  I  went  back  to  camp,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  not 

144 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

without  risking  my  life  at  the  hands  of  a  succession  of 
untrained  pickets.  At  camp  things  were  compara- 
tively comfortable.  The  weather  was  so  warm  that 
most  of  the  men  preferred  to  sleep  out-doors  on  the 
ground.  I  often  had  a  tent  to  myself.  Troops  con- 
tinued to  come.  Many  went  by  to  Johnston  (who,  to 
our  dismay,  had  fallen  back  from  Harper's  Ferry), 
but  many  stayed.  Water  began  to  fail,  wells  in  pro- 
fusion were  dug,  but  without  much  avail,  and  water 
had  to  be  brought  by  rail.  Excellent  it  was.  Boxes 
of  provisions  continued  to  come  in  diminishing  num- 
bers, but  upon  the  whole  we  lived  tolerably  well.  The 
Eleventh  Virginia,  its  quota  now  filled,  had  gone  out 
on  one  or  two  little  expeditions  without  material 
results.  It  formed  part  of  Longstreet's  Brigade,  and 
made  a  fine  appearance  and  most  favorable  impression 
in  the  first  brigade  drill  that  took  place.  How  thank- 
ful I  was  that  I  was  not  in  it! 

During  these  days  when  the  camp  of  the  Eleventh 
Virginia  was  comparatively  deserted,  the  men  being 
detailed  at  various  duties,  there  occurred  an  episode 
which  will  never  be  forgotten  by  those  who  witnessed 
it.  Coming  down  from  head-quarters  about  one  o'clock 
to  get  my  dinner,  I  became  aware  as  soon  as  I  drew 
nigh  our  tents  that  something  unusual  was  "toward," 
as  Carlyle  would  say.  Sure  enough  there  was.  In 
addition  to  the  ladies  from  Lynchburg,  heretofore  men- 
tioned, we  had  been  visited  by  quite  a  number  of  the 
leading  men  of  that  city,  who  came  to  look  after  their 
sons  and  wards.  Several  ministers,  among  them  the 
Rev.  Jacob  D.  Mitchell,  had  come  to  preach  for  us. 

145 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

But  now  there  was  a  visitor  of  a  different  stripe.  The 
moment  I  got  within  hailing  distance  of  the  captain's 
tent  I  heard  a  loud  hearty  voice  call  me  by  my  first 
name. 

"  Hello !  George,  what  '11  you  have  ?  Free  bar.  Got 
every  liquor  you  can  name.     Call  for  what  you  please." 

Looking  up,  I  beheld  the  bulky  form,  the  dusky- 
red  cheeks  and  sparkling  black  eyes  of  Major  Daniel 
Warwick,  a  Baltimore  merchant,  formerly  of  Lynch- 
burg, who  had  come  to  share  the  fortune,  good  or  ill, 
of  his  native  State.  He  was  the  prince  of  good  fellows, 
a  bon  vivant  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  term,  a  Falstaff 
in  form  and  in  love  of  fun.  What  he  said  was  literally 
true,  or  nearly  so;  he  had  all  sorts  of  liquors.  In  order 
to  test  him  I  called  for  a  bottle  of  London  stout. 

"Sam,  you  scoundrel!   fetch   out   that  stout. 

How'll  you  have  it — plain  ?  Better  let  me  make  you  a 
porteree  this  hot  day." 

"Very  good;  make  it  a  porteree." 

He  was  standing  behind  an  improvised  bar  of  bar- 
rels and  planks,  set  forth  with  decanters,  bottles, 
glasses,  lemons,  oranges,  and  pineapples,  with  his  boy 
Sam  as  his  assistant.  The  porteree,  which  was  but 
one  of  many  that  I  enjoyed  during  the  major's  stay, 
was  followed  by  a  royal  dinner,  contributed  almost 
wholly  by  the  major.  This  was  kept  up  for  a  week  or 
ten  days,  officers  and  men  of  the  Lynchburg  companies 
and  invited  guests,  some  of  them  quite  distinguished, 
all  joining  in  the  prolonged  feast,  which  must  have 
cost  the  major  many  hundreds  of  dollars. 

The  major's  inexhaustible  wit  and  humor,  his  quaint 

146 


AN  UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

observations  on  everything  he  saw,  his  sanguine  pre- 
dictions about  the  war,  and  his  odd  behavior  throughout, 
were  as  much  of  a  feast  as  his  eatables  and  drinkables. 
He  was  the  greatest  favorite  imaginable.  Everything 
was  done  to  please  him  and  make  him  comfortable, 
including  a  tent  fitted  up  for  him.  Being  much  fatigued 
by  his  first  day's  experience  as  an  open  barkeeper,  he 
went  to  bed  early,  the  boys  all  keeping  quiet  to  insure 
his  sleeping.  Within  twenty  minutes  they  heard  him 
snoring,  and  the  next  thing  they  knew  the  tent  burst 
wide  open  and  out  rushed  the  corpulent  major,  clad 
only  in  his  shirt,  and  as  he  came  he  shouted  at  the  pitch 
of  his  stentorian  voice:  "Gi'  me  a'r,  gi'  me  a'r! 
For  God's  sake,  gi'  me  a'r!"  Of  course  there  was  a 
universal  burst  of  laughter,  which  the  major  bore  with 
perfect  good  nature.  Thenceforth  he  slept  on  a  blanket 
under  the  canopy  of  heaven,  enjoying  it  as  much, 
he  declared,  as  a  deer  hunt  in  the  wilds  of  western 
Virginia.  He  carried  with  him,  when  he  left,  the  God- 
speed of  hundreds  of  hearts  grateful  for  the  abundant 
and  unexpected  happiness  he  had  brought  them. 

This  was  that  same  major  who  cut  up  such  pranks 
in  New  York  City  a  few  months  after  the  war  ended 
— picking  up  a  strong  negro  on  the  street  and  forcing 
him  to  eat  breakfast  with  him  at  the  Prescott  House, 
imperiously  ordering  the  white  waiters  to  attend  to  his 
every  want,  then  walking  arm  in  arm  with  the  negro 
down  Broadway,  each  having  in  his  mouth  the  longest 
cigar  that  could  be  bought,  and  puffing  away  at  a 
great  rate,  to  the  intense  disgust  of  the  passers-by. 
Of  this  freak  I  was  myself  eye-witness.     In  the  restau- 

147 


AN  UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

rants  he  would  burst  out  with  a  lot  of  Confederate 
songs,  and  keep  them  up  till  scowls  and  oaths  gave  him 
to  understand  that  it  would  be  dangerous  to  continue, 
when  he  would  suddenly  whip  off  into  some  intensely 
loyal  air,  leaving  his  auditors  in  doubt  whether  he  was 
Union  or  secesh,  or  simply  a  crank.  In  the  street-cars 
and  omnibuses  he  would  ostentatiously  stand  up  for 
negro  women  as  they  entered,  deposit  their  fare,  gal- 
lantly help  them  in  and  out,  taking  off  his  hat  as  he 
did,  and  bitterly  inveighing  against  those  who  refused 
to  follow  his  example.  So  pointed  were  his  insults 
that  his  huge  size  alone  saved  him  from  many  a  knock- 
down. He  lived  too  merrily  to  live  long,  and  died  in 
Baltimore  in  1867,  I  believe. 

Ever  since  the  fall  of  Sumter  Beauregard's  star  had 
been  in  the  ascendant.  His  poetical  name  seemed  to 
carry  a  magical  charm  with  it.  Jordan  had  implicit 
faith  in  him.  Many  others  looked  upon  him  as  likely 
to  be  the  foremost  military  figure  of  the  war,  and  were 
prepared  to  attach  themselves  to  his  fortunes.  Keep- 
ing my  place  as  a  private  detailed  for  duty  in  the  adju- 
tant's office,  I  contented  myself  with  a  simple  intro- 
duction to  the  general,  and  did  not  presume  to  enter 
into  conversation  with  him — a  privilege  most  editors 
would  have  claimed.  (I  was  then  editor  of  the  South- 
ern Literary  Messenger.)  But  I  availed  myself  of  my 
opportunity  to  study  this  prominent  character  in  the 
pending  struggle.  His  athletic  figure,  the  leonine  for- 
mation of  his  head,  his  large,  dark-brown  eyes  and  his 
broad,  low  forehead  indicated  courage  and  capacity. 
Of  his  mental  caliber  I  could  not  judge,  but  others 

148 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

spoke  highly  of  it.  He  indefatigably  studied  the  coun- 
try around  Manassas,  riding  out  every  day  with  the 
engineer  officers  and  members  of  his  staff.  He  was 
eminently  polite,  patient,  and  good-natured.  I  never 
knew  him  to  lose  his  temper  but  once,  and  then  the 
occasion  was  ludicrous  in  the  extreme. 

Just  before  the  battle  of  Manassas  the  militia  of  all 
the  adjoining  counties  were  called  out  in  utmost  haste 
to  swell  our  numbers.  A  colonel  of  one  of  the  militia 
regiments,  arrayed  in  old-style  cocked  hat  and  big 
epaulets,  came  up  a  morning  or  two  before  the  battle 
and  asked  to  see  the  general.  When  General  Beau- 
regard appeared,  he  said  with  utmost  sincerity: 

"General  Beauregard,  my  men  are  mostly  men  of 
families.  They  left  home  in  a  hurry,  without  enough 
coffee-pots,  frying-pans,  and  blankets,  and  they  would 
like,  sir,  to  go  back  for  a  few  days  to  get  these  things 
and  to  compose  their  minds,  which  is  oneasy  about 
their  families,  their  craps,  and  many  other  things." 

Beauregard's  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"Do  you  see  that  sun,  sir?"  pointing  to  it. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  colonel,  in  wondering  timidity. 

"Well,  sir,  I  might  as  well  attempt  to  pull  down  that 
sun  from  heaven  as  to  allow  your  men  to  return  home 
at  a  critical  moment  like  this.  Go  tell  your  men  to 
prepare  for  battle  at  any  instant.  There  is  no  telling 
when  it  may  come." 

The  colonel  retreated  in  confusion. 

Beauregard's  high  qualities  as  an  engineer — most 
signally  proved  by  his  subsequent  defence  of  Charles- 
ton, compared  with  which   the  reduction  of  Sumter 

149 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

was  a  trifle — were  acknowledged  on  all  hands.  What 
he  would  be  at  the  head  of  an  army  in  the  open  field 
remained  to  be  seen.  It  was  a  trying  time  for  him; 
but  if  he  were  nervous  no  one  discovered  it. 

His  staff  was  composed  mostly  of  young  South  Caro- 
linians of  good  family,  and  he  had  in  addition  a  num- 
ber of  volunteer  aids,  all  of  them  men  of  distinction. 
Ex-Governor  James  Chestnut  was  one,  I  think.  Will- 
iam Porcher  Miles,  an  accomplished  scholar  and  ele- 
gant gentleman,  I  am  sure  was.  So  was  that  grand 
specimen  of  manhood,  Colonel  John  S.  Preston;  also, 
Ex-Governor  Manning,  a  most  charming  and  agree- 
able companion.  His  juleps,  made  of  his  own  dark 
brandy  and  served  at  mid-day  in  a  large  bucket,  in  lieu 
of  something  better,  greatly  endeared  him  to  us  all. 
One  day  all  these  distinguished  gentlemen  suddenly 
disappeared.  Colonel  Jordan  simply  said  they  had 
gone  to  Richmond;  but  evidently  something  was  in 
the  wind.  What  could  it  be?  On  their  return,  after 
a  week's  absence,  as  well  as  I  remember,  there  was 
an  ominous  hush  about  the  whole  proceeding.  No- 
body had  anything  to  say,  but  there  was  a  graver, 
less  happy  atmosphere  at  head-quarters.  Gradually  it 
leaked  out  that  Mr.  Davis  had  rejected  Beauregard's 
proposal  that  Johnston  should  suddenly  join  him  and 
the  two  should  attack  McDowell  unawares  and  unpre- 
pared. The  mere  refusal  could  not  have  caused  so 
much  feeling  at  head-quarters.  There  must  have  been 
aggravating  circumstances,  but  what  they  were  I  never 
learned.  All  I  could  get  from  Colonel  Jordan  was  a 
lifting  of  the  eyebrows,  and  "Mr.  Davis  is  a  peculiar 

150 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

man.     He  thinks  he  knows  more  than  everybody  else 
combined." 

What!  want  of  confidence  in  our  president,  at  this 
early  stage  of  the  game  ?  Impossible !  A  vague  alarm 
filled  me.  I  had  been  the  first — the  very  first,  I  be- 
lieve— to  nominate  Mr.  Davis  for  the  presidency;  had 
violated  the  traditions  of  the  oldest  Southern  literary 
journal  in  doing  so.  I  had  no  personal  knowledge  of 
his  fitness  for  the  position.  No.  But  his  record  as  a 
soldier  in  Mexico,  his  experience  as  minister  of  war, 
and  his  fame  as  a  statesman  seemed  to  point  him  out 
as  the  man  ordained  by  Providence  to  be  our  leader. 
And  now  so  soon  distrusted!  I  tried  to  dismiss  the 
whole  thing  from  my  mind,  it  distressed  me  so.  But 
it  would  not  down  at  my  bidding.  Many  prominent 
men  came  to  look  after  the  troops  of  their  respective 
States,  sometimes  in  an  official  capacity,  sometimes 
of  their  own  accord.  Among  them  was  Thomas  L. 
Clingman,  of  North  Carolina,  with  whom  I  had  a 
slight  acquaintance.  How  it  came  about  I  quite  for- 
get, but  we  took  a  walk,  one  afternoon,  down  the 
Warrenton  road,  and  fell  to  talking  about  the  subject 
uppermost  in  my  thoughts — Mr.  Davis.  Clingman 
seemed  to  know  his  character  thoroughly,  and  fortified 
his  opinions  by  facts  of  recent  date  at  Montgomery 
and  Richmond.  Particulars  need  not  be  given,  if, 
indeed,  I  could  recall  them;  but  the  upshot  of  it  all 
was,  that  in  the  opinion  of  many  wise  men  the  choice 
of  Jefferson  Davis  as  President  of  the  Confederate 
States  was  a  profound,  perhaps  a  fatal,  mistake.  Un- 
able to  controvert  a  single  position  taken  by  Clingman, 

151 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR. 

my  heart  sank  low,  and  never  fully  rallied,  for  the 
sufficient  reason  that  Mr.  Davis's  career  confirmed  all 
that  Clingman  had  said — all  and  more. 

As  the  plot  thickened,  so  did  occurrences  in  and 
around  head-quarters.  Beauregard  kept  open  house, 
as  it  were,  many  people  dropping  in  to  the  several 
meals,  some  by  invitation,  others  not.  The  fare  was 
plain,  wholesome,  and  abundant,  rice  cooked  in  South 
Carolina  style  being  a  favorite  dish  for  breakfast  as 
well  as  dinner.  The  new  brigadiers  also  dropped  in 
upon  us  from  time  to  time.  One  of  them  was  my 
old  school-mate,  Robert  E.  Rodes,  a  Lynchburger  by 
birth,  but  now  in  command  of  Alabama  troops.  In 
him  Beauregard  had  special  confidence,  giving  him  the 
front  as  McDowell  approached.  Rodes  was  killed  in 
the  valley  in  1864,  a  general  of  division,  full  of  promise, 
a  man  of  ability,  a  first-rate  soldier.  Lynchburg  has 
reason  to  be  proud  of  two  such  men  as  Garland  and 
Rodes.  Soldiers  continued  to  arrive.  As  fast  as  they 
came  they  were  sent  toward  Bull  Run,  that  being  our 
line  of  defence.  Some  regiments  excited  general  ad- 
miration by  their  fine  personal  appearance,  their  excel- 
lent equipment  and  soldierly  bearing.  None  surpassed 
the  First  Virginia  Regiment  in  neatness  or  in  drill — 
in  truth,  few  approached  it.  The  poorest  set  as  to 
size,  looks,  and  dress  were  some  of  the  South  Caro- 
linians. Louisiana  sent  a  fine  body  of  men.  But  by 
odds  the  best  of  our  troops  were  the  Texans.  Gamer 
men  never  trod  the  earth.  In  their  eyes  and  in  their 
every  movement  they  showed  fight,  and  their  career 
from  first  to  last  demonstrated  the  truth,  in  their  case 

152 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

at  least,  of  the  old  Latin  adage,  "Vvltus  index  est 
animi"— the  face  tells  the  character.  I  verily  believe 
that  fifty  thousand  Texans  such  as  those  who  came  to 
Virginia,  properly  handled,  could  whip  any  army  the 
North  could  muster. 

But  as  a  whole  our  men  did  not  compare  with  the 
Union  soldiery.  They  were  not  so  large  of  limb,  so 
deep  in  the  chest,  or  so  firm-set,  and  in  arms  and  cloth- 
ing the  comparison  was  still  more  damaging  to  the 
South.  A  friend  of  mine,  who  lingered  in  Washington 
till  he  could  linger  no  longer,  halted  a  day  at  Manassas 
on  his  way  to  his  old  home  in  Culpeper  County.  With 
great  pride  I  called  his  attention  to  Hays's  magnificent 
Louisiana  regiment,  one  thousand  four  hundred  strong, 
drawn  out  full  length  at  dress  parade.  He  shook  his 
head,  sighed  heavily,  and  described  the  stout-built, 
superbly  equipped  men  he  had  seen  pouring  by  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  down  Pennsylvania  Avenue. 
This  incident  made  little  impression  on  me  at  the 
time,  my  friend  being  of  a  despondent  nature;  but 
after  my  talk  with  Colonel  Clingman  it  returned  to 
me,  and,  I  confess,  depressed  me  not  a  little. 

The  camps  were  now  deserted,  the  regiments  being 
picketed  on  Bull  Run.  It  was  painful  for  me  to  go 
among  the  empty  tents;  it  was  like  wandering  about 
college  in  vacation — nay,  worse,  for  it  was  morally  cer- 
tain that  some,  perhaps  many,  would  return  to  the 
tents  no  more.  I  missed  the  faces  of  my  friends;  I 
longed  for  the  lemonade  "with  a  stick  in  it"  that 
Captain  Shields  and  Dr.  Palmer  used  to  give  whenever 
I  made  them  a  visit,  and  I  really  pined  for  the  red  shirt 

153 


AN  UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

and  cheery  voice  of  Captain  H.  Grey  Latham,  as  he 
went  from  tent  to  tent,  telling  them  new  jokes,  and  on 
leaving,  repeating  his  farewell  formula,  "Yours  truly, 
John  Dooly,"  which  actually  got  to  be  funny  by  per- 
petual repetition  and  became  a  by-word  throughout  the 
army.  Finally  I  got  so  sick  of  the  deserted  camp  that 
I  asked  Clifton  Smith  to  let  me  share  his  pallet  in  the 
little  shed-room  cut  off  from  the  porch  at  head-quarters. 
He  kindly  assented,  and  I  moved  up,  but  still  took  my 
meals  at  camp.  Doleful  eating  it  would  have  been  but 
for  the  occasional  presence  of  my  dear  friend,  Lieu- 
tenant Woodville  Latham,  who,  being  judge  of  a  court- 
martial  then  in  session,  had  not  yet  joined  the  Eleventh 
Virginia  at  Bull  Run. 

The  nights  were  so  hot  that  I  found  it  almost  impossi- 
ble to  sleep  in  Clifton  Smith's  little  shed-room.  My 
mind  was  excited  by  the  approaching  battle,  and  my 
habit  of  afternoon  napping  added  to  my  sleeplessness. 
So  the  little  sleep  I  got  was  in  a  chair  on  the  porch. 
Near  me,  on  the  dinner-table,  too  long  for  any  room  in 
the  house,  lay  young  Goolsby,  a  lad  of  sixteen,  who 
acted  as  night  orderly.  The  calls  upon  him  were  so 
frequent  and  the  pain  of  being  awakened  so  great,  that 
finally  I  said  to  him:  "Sleep  on,  Goolsby,  I'll  take  your 
place."  He  was  very  grateful.  So  I  played  night 
orderly  from  12  o'clock  till  6  a.  m.  thenceforward,  and 
on  that  account  slept  the  longer  and  the  harder  in  the 
afternoon.  Near  sunset  on  the  18th  I  arose  from 
Smith's  pallet  in  the  shed-room,  washed  my  face,  and 
walked  out  upon  the  porch.  It  was  filled  with  officers  and 
men,  all  looking  toward  Bull  Run.    One  of  them  said : 

154 


AN  UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

"That's  heavier  firing  than  any  I  heard  during  the 
war  in  Mexico." 

"It  was  certainly  very  heavy,"  was  the  reply,  "but 
it  seems  to  be  over  now." 

And  that  is  all  I  know  about  the  battle  of  the  18th. 
I  had  slept  through  the  whole  of  it!  Major  Harrison, 
of  our  regiment,  was  killed;  Colonel  Moore,  of  the 
First  Virginia  Regiment,  and  Lieutenant  James  H.  Lee, 
of  the  same  regiment,  were  wounded,  the  latter  seri- 
ously, as  it  turned  out.  There  were  no  other  casualties 
that  particularly  interested  me. 

Every  one  knew  the  ordeal  was  at  hand.  The  move- 
ments preceding  the  great  tragedy  had  the  hurry  and 
convergence  which  belong  to  all  catastrophes.  A  con- 
fused mixture  of  memories  is  left  me — things  relevant 
and  irrelevant.  L.  W.  Spratt,  Thomas  H.  Wynne, 
Mrs.  Bradley  T.  Johnson — the  big  guns  of  the  in- 
trenched camp;  the  night  arrival  of  Johnston's  staff, 
the  parting  with  my  friend  Latham — all  these  and 
many  more  recollections  are  piled  up  in  my  mind. 
Beauregard's  plan  of  battle  had  been  approved  by 
General  Johnston.  Ewell  was  to  attack  McDowell's 
left  at  early  dawn,  flank  him,  and  cut  him  off  from 
Washington,  our  other  brigades  from  left  to  right  co- 
operating. Until  midnight  and  later  all  of  Colonel 
Jordan's  clerks  were  busy  copying  the  battle  orders, 
which  were  at  once  sent  off  to  the  divisions  and  brigades 
by  couriers.  I  myself  made  many  copies.  The  last 
sentence  I  remember  to  this  day;  it  read  as  follows: 
"In  case  the  enemy  is  defeated  he  is  to  be  pursued  by 
cavalry  and  artillery  until  he  is  driven  across  the  Poto- 

155 


AN   UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR 

mac."  He  needed  no  pursuit,  but  went  across  the 
Potomac  all  the  same.  No,  not  all  the  same.  Had 
we  followed  in  force  the  result  might  have  been  differ- 
ent. I  sat  up  as  usual  that  night,  but  recall  no  event 
of  interest. 

As  morning  dawned,  I  wondered  and  wondered  why 
no  sound  of  battle  was  heard — none  except  the  distant 
roar  of  Long  Tom,  which  set  the  enemy  in  motion. 
How  Ewell  failed  to  get  his  order,  how  our  plan  of 
battle  failed  in  consequence,  and  how  near  we  came  to 
defeat,  is  known  to  all.  'Tis  an  old,  and  to  Confed- 
erates, a  sad  story. 

On  the  morning  of  the  18th,  as  Beauregard  walked 
out  to  mount  his  horse,  he  stumbled  and  came  near 
falling — a  bad  augury,  which,  we  thought,  brought  a 
shadow  over  his  face.  But  on  this  morning,  the  21st 
all  went  well;  the  generals  and  their  staffs,  after  an 
early  breakfast,  rode  off  in  high  spirits,  victory  in  their 
very  eyes.  My  duty  was  to  look  after  the  papers  of 
the  office,  which  had  been  hastily  packed  up,  and,  in 
case  of  danger,  see  that  they  were  put  on  board  a  train, 
which  was  held  in  readiness  to  receive  them  and  other 
valuable  effects.  The  earth  seemed  to  vomit  men; 
they  came  in  from  all  sides.  Holmes,  from  Fredericks- 
burg, at  the  head  of  his  division,  in  a  high-crown,  very 
dusty  beaver,  I  well  recollect.  He  made  me  laugh. 
Barksdale,  of  Mississippi,  halting  his  regiment  to  get 
ammunition.  The  militia  ensconced  behind  the  earth- 
works of  the  intrenched  camp,  their  figures  flit  before 
me.  It  was  a  superb  Sabbath  day,  cloudless,  and  at 
first  not  very  hot.     A  sweet  breeze  from  the  west  blew 

156 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

in  my  face  as  I  stood  on  a  hill  overlooking  the  vale  of 
Bull  Run.  I  saw  the  enormous  column  of  dust  made 
by  the  enemy  as  they  advanced  upon  our  left.  The 
field  of  battle  evidently  would  be  where  the  comet, 
then  illuminating  the  skies,  seemed  to  rest  at  night. 
Returning  to  head-quarters  I  reported  to  Colonel  Jor- 
dan the  movement  upon  our  left. 

"Has  McDowell  done  that?"  he  asked,  with  ani- 
mation. "Then  Beauregard  will  give  him  all  his  old 
boots,  for  that  is  exactly  where  we  want  him." 

The  colonel  meant  that  Ewell  would  have  a  better 
chance  of  attack  by  reason  of  the  weakening  of  Mc- 
Dowell's left. 

Again  and  again  I  walked  out  to  watch  the  progress 
of  the  battle,  which  lasted  a  great  deal  longer  than  I 
expected  or  desired.  The  pictures  of  battles  at  a 
distance,  in  the  English  illustrated  papers,  give  a  good 
idea  of  what  I  saw,  minus  the  stragglers  and  the 
wounded,  who  came  out  in  increasing  numbers  as  the 
day  advanced,  and  disheartening  President  Davis  as 
he  rode  out  to  the  field  in  the  afternoon.  At  noon  or 
thereabout  a  report  that  our  centre  had  been  broken 
hurried  me  back  to  head-quarters,  and  although  the 
report  proved  false,  kept  me  there  for  several  hours, 
the  battle  meanwhile  raging  fiercely,  and  not  a  sound 
from  Ewell. 

Restless  and  excited,  I  went  into  a  neighboring 
house,  occupied  by  a  lone  woman,  who  was  in  a  peck 
of  trouble  about  herself,  her  house,  her  everything. 
The  bigger  trouble  outside  filled  my  mind  during  the 
recital  of  her  woes,  so  that  I  now  recall  none  of  them. 

157 


AN  UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

Unable  longer  to  bear  the  suspense,  I  left  important 
papers,  etc.,  to  take  care  of  themselves,  and  set  out  for 
the  battle-field,  determined  to  go  in  and  get  rid  of  my 
fears  and  doubts  by  action.  I  reached  the  hill  which 
I  had  so  often  visited  in  the  morning,  and  paused 
awhile  to  look  at  some  of  our  troops,  who  were  rapidly 
moving  from  our  right  to  our  left.  Just  then — can  I 
ever  forget  it? — there  came,  as  it  seemed,  an  instan- 
taneous suppression  of  firing,  and  almost  immediately 
a  cheer  went  up  and  ran  along  the  valley  from  end  to 
end  of  our  line.  It  meant  victory — there  was  no  mis- 
taking the  fact.  I  stood  perfectly  still,  feeling  no 
exultation  whatever.  An  indescribable  thankful  sad- 
ness fell  upon  me,  rooting  me  to  the  spot  and  plunging 
me  into  a  deep  reverie,  which  for  a  long  time  prevented 
me  from  seeing  or  hearing  what  went  forward.  Night 
had  nearly  fallen  when  I  came  to  myself  and  started 
homeward.  The  road  was  filled  with  wounded  men, 
their  friends,  and  a  few  prisoners.  I  spoke  kindly  to 
the  prisoners,  and  took  in  charge  a  badly  wounded 
young  man,  carrying  him  to  the  hospital,  from  the 
back  windows  of  which  amputated  legs  and  arms  had 
already  been  thrown  on  the  ground  in  a  sickening  pile. 

At  head-quarters  there  was  a  great  crowd  waiting  for 
the  generals  and  Mr.  Davis  to  return.  It  was  now 
quite  dark.  A  deal  of  talking  went  on,  but  I  observed 
little  elation.  People  were  worn  out  with  excitement 
— too  many  had  been  killed — how  many  and  who  was 
yet  to  be  learned.  War  is  a  sad  business,  even  to  the 
victors.  I  saw  young  George  Burwell,  fourteen  years 
of  age,  bring  in  Colonel  Corcoran,  his  personal  captive. 

158 


AN  UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

I  heard  Colonel  Porcher  Miles's  withering  retort  to 
Congressman  Ely,  who  tried  to  claim  friendly  acquaint- 
ance with  him,  but  went  off  abashed  in  a  linen  duster 
with  the  other  prisoners.  I  asked  Colonel  Preston 
what  he  thought  of  the  day's  work. 

"A  glorious  victory,  which  will  produce  immense 
results,"  was  his  reply. 

"When  will  we  advance?" 

"We  will  be  in  Baltimore  next  week." 

How  far  wrong  even  the  wisest  are?  We  never 
entered  Baltimore,  and  that  victorious  army,  cne-half 
of  which  had  barely  fired  a  shot,  did  not  fight  another 
pitched  battle  for  nearly  a  year! 

It  was  after  midnight  when  I  carried  to  the  tele- 
graph office  Mr.  Davis's  despatch  announcing  the  vic- 
tory. Inside  the  intrenched  camp  one  thousand  or 
twelve  hundred  prisoners  were  herded,  the  militia 
standing  up  side  by  side  guarding  them  and  forming  a 
human  picket-fence,  funny  to  behold.  It  was  clear 
as  a  bell  when  I  walked  back;  the  baleful  comet  hung 
over  the  field  of  battle;  all  was  very  still;  I  could 
almost  hear  the  beating  of  my  tired  heart,  that  had 
gone  through  so  much  that  day.  Too  much  exhausted 
to  play  orderly,  I  slept  in  my  chair  like  a  top. 

The  next  day,  Monday,  the  22d,  it  rained,  a  steady, 
straight  downpour  the  livelong  day.  Everybody 
flocked  to  head-quarters.  Not  one  word  was  said  about 
a  forward  movement  upon  Washington.  We  had  too 
many  generals-in-chief ;  we  were  Southerners;  we  didn't 
fancy  marching  in  the  mud  and  rain — we  threw  away 
a  grand  opportunity.     For  days,  for  weeks,  you  might 

159 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

say,  our  friends  kept  coming  from  Alexandria,  saying 
with  wonder  and  impatience:  "Why  don't  you  come 
on?  Why  stay  here  doing  nothing?"  No  sufficient 
answer,  in  my  poor  judgment,  was  ever  given. 
The  dead  and  the  dying  were  forgotten  in  the  general 
burst  of  congratulation.  Now  and  then  you  would  hear 
the  loss  of  Bee  and  Bartow  deplored,  or  of  some  indi- 
vidual friend  it  would  be  said:  "Yes,  he  is  gone,  poor 
fellow";  but  this  was  as  nothing  compared  to  the  joy- 
ous hubbub  over  the  victory.  How  proud  and  happy 
we  were!  Didn't  we  know  that  we  could  whip  the 
Yankees  ?  Hadn't  we  always  said  so  ?  Henceforth  it 
would  be  easy  sailing — the  war  would  soon  be  over, 
too  soon  for  all  the  glory  we  felt  sure  of  gaining.  What 
fools ! 

Captain  H.  Grey  Latham,  in  his  red  shirt,  was  a 
conspicuous  figure  at  head-quarters.  His  battery  had 
covered  itself  with  renown;  congratulations  were  show- 
ered upon  him.  I  saw  Captain  (afterward  colonel,  on 
Lee's  staff)  Henry  E.  Peyton  come  over  from  General 
Beauregard's  room  blazing  with  excitement  and  exal- 
tation. Yesterday  he  was  a  private — now  he  was  a 
captain,  promoted  by  Beauregard  first  of  all  because 

of  his  signal  gallantry  on  the  field.     "By  !"  he 

exclaimed  to  me,  "when  I  die,  I  intend  to  die  glori- 
ously." Alas!  Colonel  Peyton,  confidential  clerk  of 
the  United  States  Senate  and  owner  of  one  of  the  best 
farms  in  Loudoun  County,  is  like  to  die  in  his  bed  as 
ingloriously  as  the  rest  of  us. 

A  young  Mr.  Fauntleroy,  desiring  an  interview  with 
General  Joseph  E.  Johnston,  I  offered  to  procure  it 

160 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

for  him,  and  pushed  through  the  crowd  to  the  table 
at  which  he  sat.  "Excuse  me,  General  Johnston,"  I 
began.  "Excuse  me,  sir!"  he  replied,  in  tones  that 
sent  me  away  in  a  state  of  demoralization. 

The  next  thing  I  remember  is  the  coming  on  of 
night,  and  my  resuming  my  post  as  night  orderly.  I 
was  seldom  aroused,  and  slept  soundly  in  a  chair, 
tilted  back  against  the  wall.  In  the  yard  just  in  front 
of  me  were  a  number  of  tents,  one  of  which  was  occu- 
pied by  President  Davis.  The  rising  sun  awakened 
me.  My  eyes  were  still  half  open  when  Mr.  Davis 
stepped  out  of  his  tent,  in  full  dress,  having  made  his 
toilet  with  care.  Seeing  no  one  but  a  private,  appar- 
ently asleep  in  a  chair,  he  looked  about,  turned,  and 
slowly  walked  to  the  yard  fence,  on  the  other  side  of 
which  a  score  or  more  of  captured  cannon  were  parked, 
Long  Tom  being  conspicuous.  The  president  stood 
and  looked  at  the  cannon  for  ten  minutes  or  more. 
Having  never  seen  him  close  at  hand,  I  went  up  and 
looked  at  the  cannon  too,  but  in  reality  I  was  looking 
at  him  most  intently. 

That  was  the  turning-point  in  my  life.  Had  I  gone 
up  to  him,  made  myself  known,  told  him  what  I  had 
done  in  his  behalf,  and  asked  something  in  return,  my 
career  in  life  would  almost  certainly  have  been  far 
different.  We  were  alone.  It  was  an  auspicious  time 
to  ask  favors — just  after  a  great  victory — and  he  was 
very  responsive  to  personal  appeals.  My  prayer  would 
have  been  heard.  In  that  event  I  should  have  become 
a  member  of  his  political  and  military  family,  or,  what 
would  have  suited  me  much  better,  have  gone  to  Lon- 

161 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

don,  as  John  R.  Thompson  afterward  did,  to  pursue  in 
the  interest  of  the  Confederacy  my  calling  as  a  jour- 
nalist. But  Clingman's  talk  had  done  its  work.  Al- 
ready prejudiced  against  Mr.  Davis,  his  face,  as  I 
examined  it  that  fateful  morning,  lacked — or  seemed 
to — the  elements  that  might  have  overcome  my  preju- 
dices. There  was  no  magnetism  in  it — it  did  not 
draw  me.  Yet  his  voice  was  sweet,  musical  in  a  high 
degree,  and  that  might  have  drawn  me  had  I  but 
spoken  to  him.  I  could  not  force  myself  to  open  my 
lips,  but  walked  back  to  my  chair  on  the  open  porch, 
and  my  lot  in  life  was  decided. 

General  Beauregard  removed  his  head-quarters  to 
the  house  of  Mr.  Ware,  some  distance  from  Manassas 
Station,  a  commodious  brick  building,  in  which  our 
friend,  Lieutenant  James  K.  Lee,  lay  wounded.  Mr. 
Ware's  family  remained,  but  most  of  the  house  was 
given  up  to  us.  I  slept  in  the  garret  with  the  soldier 
detailed  to  nurse  Lieutenant  Lee.  In  the  yard  were 
a  number  of  tents  occupied  by  the  general  and  his 
staff.  Colonel  Jordan's  office  was  in  the  house.  My 
duty,  hitherto  light  and  pleasant,  now  became  some- 
what heavy  and  disagreeable.  I  had  to  file  and  for- 
ward applications  for  furlough,  based  mainly  upon 
surgeons'  certificates.  This  brought  me  in  contact 
with  many  unlovely  people,  each  anxious  to  have  his 
case  attended  to  at  once.  It  was  very  worrying. 
Others  beside  myself,  the  clerks  and  staff  officers, 
seemed  to  be  as  much  worried  by  their  labors  as  I  was 
by  mine.  Fact  is,  young  Southern  gentlemen,  used  to 
having  their  own  way,  found  it  hard  to  be  at  the  beck 

162 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

and  call  of  anybody.  The  excitement  of  battle  over, 
the  detail  of  business  was  pure  drudgery.  We  de- 
tested it. 

The  long,  hot  days  of  August  dragged  themselves 
away.  No  advance,  no  sign  of  it;  the  men  in  camp 
playing  cards,  the  officers  horse-racing.  This  dis- 
heartened me  more  than  all  things  else,  but  I  kept  my 
thoughts  to  myself.  At  night  I  would  walk  out  in  the 
garden  and  brood  over  the  possible  result  of  this  slow 
way  of  making  war.  The  garden  looked  toward  the 
battle-field.  At  times  I  thought  I  detected  the  odor  of 
the  carcasses,  lightly  buried  there;  at  others  I  fancied 
I  heard  weird  and  doleful  cries  borne  on  the  night 
wind.     I  grew  melancholy. 

Twice  or  thrice  a  day  I  went  in  to  see  Lieutenant 
Lee.  Bright  and  hopeful  of  recovery,  he  gave  his 
friends  a  cheery  welcome  and  an  invitation  to  share 
the  abundant  good  things  with  which  his  mother  and 
sisters  kept  him  supplied.  A  visit  to  his  sick  chamber 
was  literally  a  treat.  The  chances  seemed  all  in  his 
favor  for  two  weeks  or  more  after  our  arrival  at  the 
Ware  house,  but  then  there  came  a  change  for  the 
worse,  and  soon  the  symptoms  were  such  that  his 
kinsman,  Peachy  R.  Grattan.  reporter  of  the  court  of 
appeals,  was  sent  for.  He  rallied  a  little,  but  we  saw 
the  end  was  nigh.  Mr.  Grattan  promised  to  send  for 
me  during  the  night  in  case  anything  happened,  and 
at  two  o'clock  I  was  called.  The  long  respiration  pre- 
ceding death  had  set  in.  Mr.  Grattan,  kneeling  at  the 
bedside,  was  praying  aloud.  The  prayer  ended,  he 
called  the  dying  officer  by  name.     "James"  (louder), 

163 


AN  UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

"James,  is  there  anything  you  wish  done?"  Lieu- 
tenant Lee  murmured  an  inarticulate  response,  made 
an  apparent  effort  to  remove  the  ring  from  the  finger 
of  his  left  hand,  and  sank  back  into  the  last  slumber. 
I  waited  an  hour  in  silence;  still  the  long-drawn 
breathing  kept  up. 

"No  need  to  wait  longer,"  said  Mr.  Grattan;  "he 
will  not  rouse  any  more." 

I  went  to  my  pallet  in  the  garret,  but  could  not 
sleep;  at  dawn  I  was  down  again.  The  long  breath- 
ing continued;  Mr.  Grattan  sat  close  to  the  head  of 
the  bed  and  I  stood  at  the  foot,  my  gaze  fixed  on  the 
dying  man's  face.  Suddenly  both  his  eyes  opened 
wide;  there  was  no  "speculation"  in  them,  but  the 
whole  room  seemed  flooded  with  their  preternatural 
light.  Just  then  the  sun  rose,  and  his  eyes  closed  in 
everlasting  darkness,  to  open,  I  doubt  not,  in  ever- 
lasting day.  So  passed  away  the  spirit  of  James  K. 
Lee. 

A  furlough  was  given  me  to  accompany  the  remains 
to  Richmond,  with  indefinite  leave  of  absence,  there 
being  no  sign  of  active  hostilities.  In  view  of  my 
infirm  health  a  discharge  was  granted  me  after  my 
arrival  in  Richmond,  and  thus  ended  the  record  of  an 
unrenowned  warrior. 

Let  me  say  a  word  or  two  in  conclusion.  In  1861 
I  was  thirty-three  years  old;  now  I  am  fifty-five,  gray 
and  aged  beyond  my  years  by  many  afflictions.  I 
wanted  to  see  a  great  war,  saw  it,  and  pray  God  I  may 
never  see  another.  I  recall  what  General  Duff  Green, 
an  ardent  Southerner,  said  in  Washington,  in  the  win- 

164 


AN   UNRENOWNED   WARRIOR 

ter  of  1861,  to  some  hot-heads:  "Anything,  anything 
but  war."  So  said  William  C.  Rives  to  some  young 
men  in  Richmond  just  after  the  fall  of  Sumter: 
"Young  gentlemen,  you  are  eager  for  war — you  little 
know  what  it  is  you  are  so  anxious  to  see."  Those 
old  men  were  right.  War  is  simply  horrible.  The 
filth,  the  disease,  the  privation,  the  suffering,  the  muti- 
lation, and,  above  all,  the  debasement  of  public  and 
private  morals,  leave  to  war  scarcely  a  redeeming 
feature. 


165 


JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY* 


A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  RICHMOND 
"  EXAMINER  " 


QOME  days  ago  I  found,  in  an  old  drawer,  the  latch- 
key  which  the  editor  of  the  Richmond  Examiner 
gave  me  in  1863.  It  fitted  the  door  of  the  house  on 
Broad  Street,  opposite  the  African  church — the  house 
in  which  he  died.  A  bit  of  brass,  differing  in  nothing 
from  others  of  its  kind,  this  key,  nevertheless,  has  its 
charm.  It  is  the  only  souvenir  I  have  of  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  men  Virginia  ever  produced.  Com- 
ing upon  it  unexpectedly,  after  I  had  given  it  up  as 
lost,  the  bare  sight  of  it  crowded  my  mind,  in  an  in- 
stant, with  pictures  of  its  former  owner.  I  saw  him  in 
Washington,  just  after  his  return  from  Europe,  con- 

*  In  December,  1867,  soon  after  the  publication  of  the  "Latch- 
Key"  in  the  Native  Virginian,  I  visited  the  city  of  Richmond, 
and,  while  there,  was  convinced  that.  I  had  made,  unwittingly, 
two  decided  errors:  First,  John  M.  Daniel  did  not  write  "The 
Parliament  of  Beasts."  The  real  author  is  known,  but  his  name 
is  withheld  for  sufficient  reasons.  Second,  the  walk  to  Peters- 
burg was  made,  not  for  the  purpose  of  lending,  but  of  paying 
money  which  the  editor  of  the  Examiner  had  collected  for  his 
friend,  the  then  artist  Peticolas.  This  I  learned  from  the  diary 
which  Daniel  kept  at  that  time,  and  which  Mr.  T.  H.  Wynne 
has  now  in  his  possession.  In  respect  of  other  matters  of  fact, 
I  believe  the  memoir  is  substantially  correct. 

166 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

versing  with  Seddon  and  Garnett;  in  his  own  room 
over  the  Examiner  office,  as  he  sat  lordlike,  in  a  high 
arm-chair,  in  August,  1861,  questioning  me  about  the 
battle  of  Manassas  and  exhibiting  the  major's  uniform 
which  he  intended  to  wear  as  aid  to  General  Floyd; 
in  the  editorial  room,  cutting  and  slashing  leaders 
which  had  been  written  for  him,  or  denouncing  fiercely 
the  administration;  at  his  dinner-table,  pledging  Wig- 
fall  and  Hughes  in  a  glass  of  old  Madeira;  in  the  bed, 
where  he  lay  wounded,  after  the  duel  with  Elmore; 
and  last  of  all,  I  saw  his  marble  face — how  changed ! — 
as  he  lay  in  his  metallic  coffin,  March  31,  1865. 

All  these  likenesses  of  this  strange  man  came  vividly 
before  me  as  I  looked  at  the  key  of  his  door,  and  with 
them  came  a  host  of  recollections,  some  of  which  I  am 
now  about  to  set  down.  Not  that  I  have  anything  to 
tell  which  others  could  not  tell  as  well,  or  better  than 
myself.  For  it  must  not  be  inferred,  because  he  gave 
me  the  privilege  of  entering  his  house  at  any  hour  of 
the  day  or  night  that  pleased  me,  that  I  was  the  inti- 
mate personal  friend  of  John  M.  Daniel.  No;  he 
took  a  short-lived  fancy  to  me,  and  gave  me  his  latch- 
key; that  is  all.  While  the  fancy  lasted  I  used  the 
key  but  seldom,  and  after  it  died  out,  not  at  all.  Doubt- 
less he  soon  forgot  that  he  had  ever  given  it  to  me. 
My  aim  is  simply  to  put  down,  in  chronological  order, 
a  number  of  incidents  and  sayings  illustrative  of  the 
character  of  one  who,  in  some  respects,  resembled  John 
Randolph,  of  Roanoke,  and  who,  like  Randolph,  was 
of  a  nature  so  peculiar  that  the  most  trivial  reminis- 
cences can  hardly  fail  to  prove  interesting  to  hundreds 

167 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

of  thousands  in  the  South,  and  to  not  a  few  in  the 
North. 

My  acquaintance  with  him  began  in  Washington, 
after  his  return  from  Turin.  He  registered  his  name 
at  Brown's  Hotel,  in  a  small  hand,  simply  as  "Mr. 
Daniel,  Liverpool."  Although  I  had  never  seen  a 
scrap  of  his  writing,  I  knew,  the  moment  I  saw  his 
name  on  the  register,  that  the  man  for  whom  so  many 
were  anxiously  looking,  had  arrived.  The  next  even- 
ing I  was  introduced  to  him.  I  had  long  been  curi- 
ous to  see  "the  great  editor,"  and  availing  myself 
of  his  animated  conversation  with  other  visitors,  eyed 
him  intently,  seeking  in  the  outward  man  some  indi- 
cation of  the  extraordinary  being  within.  My  search 
was  not  in  vain.  The  poorest  physiognomist  could 
not  have  seen  Daniel's  face,  even  for  a  moment,  with- 
out being  attracted — I  am  tempted  to  say  fascinated 
— by  it.  True,  we  always  find  what  we  are  taught  to 
expect  in  a  face,  and  often  discover  what  does  not 
exist;  but  here  was  a  countenance  singularly  marked 
— a  dark,  refined,  decidedly  Jewish  face.  The  nose 
was  not  very  large,  and  but  slightly  aquiline;  the 
mouth  thin-lipped,  wide,  unpleasing,  and  overhung 
by  a  heavy  black  mustache;  the  chin  square,  but  not 
prominent;  the  cheeks  thin;  and  both  cheeks  and 
chin  covered  by  a  dense,  coarse,  jet-black,  closely 
trimmed  beard;  eyebrows  very  thick  and  black,  shad- 
ing deep-set,  rather  small  hazel  eyes;  head  as  small  as 
Byron's  or  Brougham's,  beautifully  shaped  and  sur- 
mounted by  masses  of  hair,  which  in  youth  hung  long 
and  lank  and  black  to  his  coat  collar,  but  in  later  life 

168 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

was  worn  close-cut.  Such  was  John  M.  Daniel,  as  he 
sat  before  me  in  a  room  at  Brown's  Hotel,  in  the 
memorable  winter  of  1861. 

He  was  richly  but  plainly  dressed.  He  talked 
freely  upon  the  topics  then  uppermost  in  every  South- 
ern mind,  but  there  was  a  hesitation,  or  rather  a  trip- 
ping, amounting  almost  to  a  stammer,  in  his  speech— 
the  result,  probably,  of  his  long  residence  abroad  and 
the  constant  use,  in  conversation,  of  French  or  Italian 
instead  of  the  English  language.  This  tripping  had 
entirely  disappeared  when  I  met  him,  a  few  months 
later,  in  Richmond.  It  was  not  an  affectation,  as  I 
had  at  first  supposed. 

During  a  number  of  interviews  which  I  had  with  him 
in  Washington,  he  was  always  courteous,  good-natured 
and  talkative.  His  moroseness,  his  bitterness,  of  which 
I  had  heard  so  much,  seemed  to  have  been  dissipated 
by  the  genial  climate  of  Italy  and  the  polite  atmosphere 
of  courts.  One  night,  however,  Floyd's  name  being 
mentioned  in  connection  with  the  affair  of  the  Indian 
Trust  Bonds,  some  reckless  person  took  it  upon  him- 
self to  say  that  in  the  public  opinion  the  then  Secretary 
of  War  was  "no  better  than  a  thief."  Daniel  flamed 
instantly.  He  rose  from  his  chair  with  a  white  face 
and  with  trembling  lips,  and  denounced  the  charge 
against  Governor  Floyd  as  an  accursed  slander.  In 
proof  that  Floyd  had  not  appropriated  to  his  own  use 
one  cent  of  the  public  funds,  he  stated  a  fact,  not  to  be 
mentioned  here,  which  seemed  to  carry  conviction  to 
all  who  heard  it.  He  was  very  much  agitated;  his 
passionate  nature  so  overmastered  him  that  he  could 

169 


john  m.  Daniel's  latch-key 

not,  although  he  tried  to,  resume  his  calmness,  and  the 
party  soon  dispersed  from  the  room. 

During  his  stay  in  Washington,  which  lasted  two  or 
three  weeks,  I  met  him  but  once  after  this  exciting 
scene.  He  was  then  in  Mr.  Seddon's  room,  conversing 
with  that  distinguished  member  of  the  Peace  Congress, 
and  with  the  Hon.  M.  R.  H.  Garnett.  Late  English 
publications,  relating  to  Continental  and  British  poli- 
tics, were  under  discussion,  and  Daniel  showed  himself 
perfectly  familiar  with  every  book  or  pamphlet  which 
the  other  gentleman  had  read.  Little  was  said  so  long 
as  I  was  present  about  Federal  politics.  It  cannot, 
however,  be  doubted  that  the  Virginia  editor  was  in 
the  intimate  counsels  of  the  leaders  of  the  Southern 
movement,  and  that,  while  he  gave  them  the  benefit 
of  his  eminently  clear  intellect,  he  in  turn  was  enabled 
by  their  information  and  opinions  to  post  himself 
thoroughly  on  all  those  points  which  were  shortly  to  be 
brought  before  the  public  in  the  columns  of  the  im- 
proved and,  for  the  first  time,  Daily  Examiner. 

The  potent  influence  of  this  paper,  from  the  mo- 
ment that  Daniel  resumed  the  helm,  was  felt  not  only 
in  Virginia,  but  throughout  the  entire  South.  To  this 
day,  the  effect  of  a  single  article,  which  appeared  a  few 
weeks  after  the  Examiner  began  to  be  issued  daily,  is 
remembered  by  almost  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in 
Virginia.  I  allude,  of  course,  to  "The  Parliament  of 
Beasts,"  in  which  the  members  of  the  Virginia  Con- 
vention, then  in  session,  were  likened  to  dogs,  cats, 
owls,  opossums,  and  other  members  of  the  animal 
kingdom.     The    likenesses    were   so   happily   and   so 

170 


john  m.  Daniel's  latch-key 

trenchantly  drawn  that  it  was  impossible  to  mistake 
them,  and  many  hundreds,  if  not  thousands,  of  copies 
of  the  issue  containing  the  article  were  sold  in  a  few 
hours.  Some  offence  was  given,  but  so  much  humor, 
and  wit  so  genuine  were  mingled  with  the  satire,  that 
the  Union  men,  who  were  most  offended,  were  obliged 
to  join  in  the  laugh  at  their  own  caricatures.  "Who 
is  the  author?"  was  in  everybody's  mouth.  This  ques- 
tion was  never  satisfactorily  answered.  The  article 
appeared  as  a  contribution,  but  in  editorial  type,  and 
the  great  majority  of  people  suspected  that  Daniel 
himself  was  the  author.  This,  however,  was  denied, 
and  many  conjectures  were  made  as  to  the  man,  in  or 
out  of  Virginia,  who  was  capable  of  doing  so  clever  a 
thing.  Two  years  or  more  after  its  appearance,  while 
sitting  alone  with  Daniel,  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  in 
confidence  who  the  real  author  was.  He  was  pacing 
the  floor  of  his  sanctum,  as  was  his  wont.  He  stopped 
abruptly,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  turned  his  face 
toward  me,  and  said,  with  the  utmost  gravity: 

"No  one  knows  better  than  yourself  who  wrote  that 
article." 

"Nonsense,"  I  replied;  "I  really  want  to  know. 
Tell  me.  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  I  will  never 
reveal  the  secret  until  you  give  me  permission  to  do  so." 

He  looked  keenly  at  me,  as  if  to  ascertain  whether  I 
could  be  trusted,  and  for  a  moment  I  felt  sure  that  he 
was  going  to  tell  me;  but  turning  suddenly  on  his  heel, 
he  began  again  to  pace  the  floor  in  silence.  He  refused 
to  tell  me  even  the  author  of  the  paraphrase  in  verse, 
which  appeared  some  time  after  the  original.     I  have 

171 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

scarcely  a  doubt  but  that  he  himself  wrote  the  original 
in  prose,  and  I  think  I  can  make  a  very  good  guess  as 
to  the  authorship  of  the  poetic  version.  The  latter  I 
attribute  to  the  same  hand  which  penned  "Fie!  Mem- 
minger,"  and  similar  articles  in  rhyme,  which  were 
printed  in  the  Examiner  during  the  years  1864-5. 

In  May,  1861,  I  went  to  Manassas  with  the  first 
battalion  sent  thither  from  Richmond.  No  sooner  was 
I  upon  the  ground  than  I  felt,  as  by  prescience,  rather 
than  by  any  comprehension  of  the  strategic  value  of 
the  position,  that  the  place  was  to  be  the  scene  of  a 
great  battle;  and  shortly  afterward,  with  the  aid  of  my 

friend,   Lieutenant   L ,   embodied   my  views   and 

apprehensions  in  an  article  of  considerable  length, 
which  I  sent  to  the  Examiner — no  order  to  the  con- 
trary having  then  been  issued.  Daniel  thought  it 
imprudent  to  publish  the  article,  but  was  so  pleased 
with  it  that  he  continued  to  send  me,  as  long  as  I 
remained  at  Manassas,  five  copies  of  his  daily  paper. 
He  also  offered  me  my  own  price  for  any  letters  I  might 
choose  to  write  him.  Even  had  it  been  lawful,  I  could 
not  have  accepted  his  proposition,  for  the  reason  that 
the  fatigues  of  incessant  drilling  left  me  little  inclina- 
tion and  less  ability  to  write  even  to  my  own  father. 
But  the  prompt  recognition  of  the  little  service  I  had 
rendered  him — a  promptness  which,  as  I  afterward 
discovered,  was  characteristic  of  Daniel — and  doubt- 
less a  good  deal  of  gratified  vanity  at  the  estimate  he 
had  placed  on  my  contribution,  impelled  me  to  call  on 
him  as  soon  as  I  reached  Richmond,  in  August,  after 
the  great  battle. 

172 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

He  was  then  living  in  two  rooms,  handsomely  fitted 
up,  in  the  second  story  of  the  Examiner  building. 
The  front  room  he  used  as  a  bedchamber,  the  back 
room  as  a  sanctum  and  a  hall  of  audience  for  his  many 
visitors.  In  the  latter  were  a  number  of  easy  chairs; 
and  one  in  particular,  which  he  preferred  above  all  the 
rest.  It  was  a  sort  of  barber's  chair,  covered  with  horse- 
hair, and  elevated  much  more  than  ordinary  chairs 
above  the  floor.  From  this  seat,  as  from  a  throne,  he 
looked  down  upon  and  conversed  with  his  visitors; 
and  to  me  at  least  (I  know  not  how  it  was  with  others) 
his  words  descended  from  their  elevation  with  a  cer- 
tain authority,  as  from  a  true  cathedra. 

The  day  was  warm,  and  the  editorial  pontiff  was  by 
no  means  in  his  robes  of  office.  He  wore  neither  coat 
nor  vest,  only  a  pair  of  white  duck  pantaloons.  He 
looked  spotlessly  clean,  cool,  and  comfortable.  His 
reception  was  kind,  almost  to  cordiality.  He  talked 
freely  about  the  war,  about  the  generals,  and  the  plans 
of  campaign,  but  was  very  guarded  in  his  comments 
upon  the  administration,  which,  up  to  this  time,  he  had 
heartily  supported.  Indeed,  the  Examiner  was,  for 
many  months  after  the  war  began,  regarded  as  the 
organ  of  the  administration.  Full  of  his  expected 
campaign  with  Floyd,  he  told  me,  with  an  air  of  satis- 
faction, how  he  intended  to  be  comfortable  and  to 
escape  the  filth  and  misery  of  camp  life.  He  was  going 
en  grand  tenue — with  a  chest  stored  with  the  good 
things  of  this  life,  a  tent  of  his  own  fashioning,  a  com- 
plete cooking  apparatus,  his  own  cook  and  his  own 
valet. 

173 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

I  asked  him  if  he  had  no  fear  of  being  killed  cr 
wounded.  He  replied  that  he  did  not  think  he  would 
be  killed,  and  that  the  chances  were  that  he  would  not 
be  wounded.  "I  hate  pain,"  said  he;  "I  cannot  bear 
it,  and  yet  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  show  an  honor- 
able scar  in  this  cause."  His  campaign  in  south-west- 
ern Virginia  was  not  of  long  duration.  I  am  satisfied, 
from  what  he  afterward  told  me,  that  he  joined  General 
Floyd,  not  for  a  holiday,  but  with  the  purpose  of  win- 
ning military  glory.  He  was  ambitious  in  everything 
he  undertook,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  he  ex- 
pressed to  me  a  great  regret  at  having  left  the  army. 
"By  this  time"  (the  winter  of  1864),  said  he,  "I  might 
have  been  a  brigadier — perhaps  a  major-general." 

"But,"  said  I,  "as  the  editor  of  the  Examiner,  you 
are  exerting  an  influence  far  greater  than  any  brigadier 
— greater,  perhaps,  than  any  major-general." 

"True,"  he  answered;  "but  what  good  is  the 
Examiner,  or  any  other  paper,  or  all  the  papers  in 
the  Confederacy  combined,  doing?  Besides,  I  like  to 
command  men.     I  love  power." 

After  the  interview  in  August,  1861,  I  saw  very 
little  of  him  for  two  years.  I  met  him  occasionally  on 
the  street,  but  his  manner  was  so  repelling  that  I  was 
deterred  from  gratifying  the  desire,  which  I  often  felt, 
of  going  to  see  him.  With  his  old  habits  had  come 
back  his  old  ways — he  was  as  cold,  self-contained  and 
gloomy  as  he  had  been  before  he  went  to  Europe.  Af- 
fairs were  not  going  in  the  fashion  that  suited  him. 
Grave  doubts  were  beginning  to  arise  in  his  mind.  He 
still  had  hopes,  and  often  high  hopes,  of  the  success  of 

174 


JOHN   M.    DANIEL'S   LATCH-KEY 

the  cause,  but  the  course  of  the  administration  excited 
continually  the  bitterness  of  his  nature.  Then,  again, 
the  whole  weight  of  the  Examiner,  which  he  frequently 
described  to  me  "as  a  mill-stone  about  his  neck,"  was 
upon  him.  Convinced  that  his  editorial  labors  were 
well  nigh  useless,  in  so  far  as  they  influenced  the  con- 
duct of  the  war,  the  finances,  or  anything  else  pertain- 
ing to  the  policy  of  Mr.  Davis,  it  was  but  natural  that 
his  mental  energies  should  flag  and  his  wonderful 
powers  of  composition  should  be  abated.  He  was 
anxious  to  get  an  assistant,  but  could  find  no  one  to 
suit  him.  He  had  fallen  out  with  one  whose  brilliant 
and  humorous  pen  had  served  him  so  well  in  former 
years.  Edward  A.  Pollard  was  in  ill  health,  and  had 
started,  or  was  about  to  start,  for  Europe,  and  he  had 
not  succeeded  in  getting  the  two  or  three  writers,  whose 
contributions,  a  few  months  later,  added  so  greatly  to 
the  value  and  the  interest  of  the  Examiner. 

It  was  at  this  time,  in  the  summer  of  1863,  while  on 
a  visit  to  the  country,  that  I  amused  myself  one  evening 
by  writing  a  satirical  article  on  the  then  exciting  sub- 
ject of  the  removal  of  the  quartermaster-general.  This 
I  sent  to  Daniel.  What  was  my  surprise  by  return 
mail,  to  receive  from  R.  F.  Walker,  the  manager  of  the 
Examiner,  a  flattering  letter,  telling  me  of  Daniel's 
high  appreciation  of  my  article,  and  his  desire  to  secure 
my  services  as  assistant  editor.  An  engagement  on 
another  paper  prevented  me  from  accepting  the  prof- 
fered situation;  moreover  I  knew  well  that  Daniel  was 
a  "hard  master."  Nevertheless,  I  was  anxious  to  see 
in  print  an  article  which  had  received  the  approval  of 

175 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

such  a  critic  as  John  M.  Daniel.  I  looked  each  day, 
but  never  saw  it.  I  own  that  I  felt  chagrined.  My 
only  conclusion  was  that  Daniel,  at  a  first  reading,  had 
overestimated  the  merits  of  the  article,  and  that  a  sub- 
sequent perusal,  revealing  faults  which  he  had  not 
before  detected,  had  determined  him  not  to  publish  it. 

On  my  return  to  Richmond,  I  felt  little  desire  to 
meet  any  of  the  Examiner  people;  but  passing  Walker 
one  day  on  the  street,  he  hailed  me  and  told  me  to 
come  to  the  office;  he  had  some  money  for  me. 

"Money  for  what?"  I  inquired. 

"For  that  article  you  sent  down.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber it?" 

"I  remember  it  distinctly,  but  I  also  remember  that 
you  never  printed  it." 

Walker  was  positive  that  the  article  had  been  printed, 
and  I  no  less  positive  that  it  had  not.  Finally  he 
referred  me  to  Mr.  Daniel,  and  to  him,  accordingly,  I 
went.  He  received  me  kindly,  complimented  my  arti- 
cle extravagantly,  as  I  thought,  and  asked  me  if  Walker 
had  paid  me  for  it.  I  was  a  good  deal  nettled,  sup- 
posing that  he  was  making  fun  of  me.  I  told  him  in 
reply,  that  Walker  had  offered  to  pay  me  much  more 
than  the  article  was  worth,  according  to  the  established 
rates  of  the  Examiner  (which  I  knew),  but  that  I  had 
refused  payment  on  the  ground  that  the  article  had 
never  appeared.  His  eye  twinkled  mischievously,  as 
he  said: 

"You  didn't  see  it,  because  you  didn't  read  the 
Examiner.  The  Examiner  contains  the  best  thoughts 
of  the  best  minds  in  the  Confederacy,  expressed  in  the 

176 


john  m.  Daniel's  latch-key 

best  manner — it  is  the  organ  of  the  thinking  gentlemen 
of  the  country.     You  ought  by  all  means  to  read  it. 

There  is  the  file;    look  at  the  number  for  ,  and 

you  will  find  your  article." 

I  looked,  and  sure  enough,  there  was  an  article  twice 
as  long  and  twice  as  good  as  the  one  I  had  written — 
my  own  ideas,  but  so  enveloped  in  Daniel's  fine  English, 
and  so  amplified  that  it  was  hard  to  recognize  them. 

I  have  purposely  related  this  incident  at  some  length, 
because  it  illustrates  Daniel's  character  and  unfolds 
one  of  the  secrets  of  his  great  success  as  an  editor.  He 
begrudged  no  labor  in  elaborating  and  improving  an 
article  which  pleased  him.  I  remember  his  telling  me 
that  he  had  written  a  certain  article  over  four  or  five 
times.  The  original  draft  was  sent  to  him  by  a  lady 
distinguished  for  her  attainments  and  performances  in 
literature.  It  was  a  defence  of  his  favorite  general. 
He  was  gallant  to  a  degree  and  the  warmest  of  parti- 
sans; and  both  his  gallantry  and  his  friendship  being 
aroused,  he  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  to  make  the 
article  as  printed  a  telling  one.  If  I  am  not  mistaken, 
I  have  this  identical  article  now  in  my  possession.  It 
is  headed,  Ohe!  jam  satis. 

Although  I  would  not  accept  the  place  of  assistant, 
and  could  by  no  means  have  filled  it  to  his  satisfaction, 
if  I  had,  I  was  glad  enough,  in  order  to  eke  out  my 
narrow  living,  to  enter  into  an  engagement  to  furnish 
nim  with  two  or  three  editorials  a  week — an  engage- 
ment which  lasted  for  several  months.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  he  gave  me  his  latch-key  and  I  became  some- 
what intimate  with  him.     I  made  many  visits  to  him 

177 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

at  his  house  on  Broad  Street;  and  had  many  talks  with 
him  on  all  sorts  of  subjects.  He  was  not  a  secretive 
man;  on  the  contrary,  he  conversed  with  the  utmost 
freedom  about  himself,  his  early  life,  his  residence 
abroad,  his  relatives  and  friends,  his  political  associates 
and  opponents,  indeed  almost  everything.  Unless  he 
happened  to  be  out  of  humor  (which  was  not  often  the 
case  at  his  private  residence),  he  loved  to  talk;  and 
though  a  recluse,  he  was  delighted  with  the  visits  of 
gentlemen  who  came  without  solicitation  on  his  part 
and  who  called  in  a  friendly  and  social  way.  He  urged 
me  to  visit  him  at  night,  and  in  order  to  tempt  me  to 
repeat  my  visits  would  give  me  each  time  what  was 
then  a  great  and  costly  treat,  a  bottle  of  English  ale. 
This  he  repeated  several  times,  but  finding  that  I  did 
not  play  chess  and  was  a  much  better  listener  than 
talker,  in  fact,  that  I  could  not  talk  well  enough  to 
provoke  him  to  talk,  he  soon  became  tired  of  my 
visits — a  fact  of  which  he  gave  me  convincing  proof  by 
yawning  in  my  face! 

This  house  on  Broad  Street  and  his  mode  of  living 
deserve  notice.  The  house  was  of  brick,  three  stories 
high,  commodious  and  comfortable.  It  was  one  of  a 
number  of  investments  in  real  estate  which  he  made 
during  the  war.  Although  no  human  being  but  him- 
self inhabited  this  house — the  servants  being  restricted 
to  the  kitchen  of  four  rooms  in  the  back  yard — he  lived, 
literally,  all  over  it.  The  front  room  on  the  first  floor 
was  his  parlor.  In  it  were  two  large  oil  paintings, 
works  of  decided  merit,  a  mosaic  chess  table  and  a 
few    mahogany    chairs.     Sometimes    he    received    his 

178 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

visitors  in  the  parlor,  but  more  often  in  the  dining- 
room  adjoining,  where  he  kept  a  table  for  writing 
and  his  iron  safe.  A  handsome  sideboard  and  a  set 
of  solid  dining  tables  of  antique  pattern  graced  this 
apartment.  He  was  fond  of  telling  that  these  tables 
once  belonged  to  "old  Memminger,"  and  were  bought 
when  the  worthy  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  broke  up 
housekeeping  on  Church  Hill.  The  front  room  in  the 
second  story  was  his  chamber,  and  the  passage-room 
adjoining,  his  dressing  closet.  A  tall  mirror,  which 
reached  from  the  floor  almost  to  the  ceiling,  was  fast- 
ened to  the  wall  between  the  two  front  windows. 
Hard  by  was  a  large  cheval  glass,  by  means  of  which 
he  was  enabled  to  see  his  whole  figure,  front  and  rear, 
from  head  to  foot.  He  was  not  a  fop,  but  he  was  fond 
of  dress,  and  had  an  eye  to  appearance,  not  only  in 
person,  but  in  print.  He  had  a  horror  of  slovenliness. 
A  carelessly  written  editorial  was  his  abomination. 
He  used  to  say  that  a  man  who  goes  into  print  ought  to 
remember  that  he  is  making  his  appearance  before  the 
very  best  society,  and  that  he  owes  it  both  to  himself 
and  to  that  society  not  to  appear  in  undress.  When 
an  acquaintance  of  the  writer  of  this  article  was  mar- 
ried in  church,  one  February  afternoon  in  1863,  John 
M.  Daniel  was  there  in  a  long-tail  coat  and  white 
waistcoat.  He  believed  in  white  waistcoats.  He  told 
his  manager,  Walker,  that  he  ought  never  to  go  to  a 
party  without  wearing  a  white  vest. 

"But,  Mr.  Daniel,"  objected  Walker,  "suppose  a 
man  hasn't  got  a  white  vest  and  is  too  poor,  these  war 
times,  to  buy  one?" 

179 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

"D — n  it!  sir,  let  him  stay  at  home." 

Besides  the  mirror,  the  cheval  glass  and  a  few  chairs, 
there  was  no  other  furniture  in  his  chamber,  except  an 
old-fashioned  high-post  bedstead,  which,  together  with 
most  of  his  furniture,  he  had  bought  at  the  sales  of  the 
refugees  once  wealthy.  He  believed  in  blood,  in  fami- 
lies of  ancient  and  honorable  descent,  in  gentlemen, 
and  preferred  the  workmanship  and  antiquated  style 
of  things  which  had  descended  as  heirlooms  in  the 
houses  of  gentlemen  to  the  costliest  and  most  tasteful 
productions  of  modern  cabinet-makers.  There  was  no 
carpet  on  the  floor  of  his  chamber,  and  he  slept  without 
a  fire.  In  the  morning  a  fire  was  built  in  the  room 
next  to  his  chamber,  and  there  his  breakfast  was  gen- 
erally served  between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock.  He 
seldom  went  to  bed  before  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  This  back  room  in  the  second  story  had  a 
bed  in  it  and  was  used  as  a  guest  chamber,  but  I  do 
not  remember  to  have  known  or  heard  of  but  one 
occupant — R.  W.  Hughes.  He  made  Daniel's  house 
his  home  whenever  he  came  to  town. 

Adjoining  the  dressing-room,  in  the  passage  of  the 
second  floor,  was  the  bath  room.  Leaning  against  the 
door  of  this  bath  room  I  used  to  see  a  bag  of  Java 
coffee,  which  made  my  mouth  water  every  time  I 
looked  at  it,  for  coffee,  in  those  days,  was  twenty  to 
thirty  dollars  a  pound. 

The  first  room  in  the  third  story  was  used  as  a  sort 
of  lumber  room.  A  barrel  or  two  of  white  sugar,  a 
few  boxes  of  manufactured  tobacco,  and  some  large 
empty  boxes,  which  had  contained  books,  were  there 

180 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

the  last  time  I  looked  in.  The  little  room,  cut  off  from 
the  passage,  was  the  library.  The  number  of  books 
was  not  what  one  would  have  expected.  A  complete 
set  of  Voltaire's  works;  the  Delphin  edition  of  the 
classics,  complete;  Swift's  Works,  Clarendon's  Re- 
bellion, and  a  few  miscellaneous  books  are  all  that  I 
can  now  recall.  Most,  if  not  all,  of  these  editions 
were  old  and  rare;  and  strange  to  tell,  most  of  them 
were  bought  at  private  sale  or  at  auction  during  the 
war.  Daniel  was  an  omnivorous  reader,  but  had  a 
sovereign  contempt  for  the  so-called  "literature  of  the 
day."  The  first  Napoleon,  riding  post  in  his  carriage 
to  the  theatre  of  war,  amused  himself  by  dipping  into 
books  just  published  and  pitching  one  after  another 
out  of  the  window.  This  was  much  the  way  with 
John  M.  Daniel,  before  he  went  abroad,  when,  in  his 
capacity  as  editor  of  the  Examiner,  all  the  new  publica- 
tions were  sent  to  him.  He  never  cared  to  keep  them 
— either  gave  or  threw  them  away,  and  if  he  had  occa- 
sion to  make  an  extract  from  one  of  them,  used  his 
scissors  remorselessly. 

The  back  room,  in  the  third  story,  was  a  favorite 
one  with  him.  Like  all  the  other  rooms,  it  was  taste- 
fully and  cheerfully  papered.  It  commanded  a  view 
of  James  River,  the  Hills  of  Henrico,  and  the  wide  low- 
lands and  woods  of  Chesterfield.  Having  a  southern 
exposure,  there  was  always  plenty  of  light  in  the  after- 
noon, and  the  room  was  easily  made  warm  and  com- 
fortable. Here  he  loved  to  sit  in  a  leather-bottomed 
chair,  with  a  little  table  near  him,  reading  Voltaire, 
the  Latin  poets,  or  contributions  and  communications 

181 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

to  the  Examiner.  In  this  room  he  kept  his  collection 
of  medals  and  seals;  a  violin  lay  in  its  wooden  case  on 
the  floor,  stringless  and  unused.  A  moody  man,  he 
sometimes  deserted  this  pleasant  room  and  confined 
himself  for  weeks  to  the  rooms  on  the  lower  floors. 

He  lived  well,  but  not  luxuriously.  He  detested 
hotels  and  boarding-houses.  When  he  lived  in  rooms 
over  his  office,  he  had  his  meals  sent  to  him  by  Tom 
Griffin  or  Zetelle.  After  he  went  to  housekeeping,  his 
negro  cook  was  his  caterer.  The  day  I  dined  at  his 
house  with  Wigfall  and  Hughes,  he  had  but  one  course, 
a  single  joint  of  meat,  a  few  vegetables,  no  desert, 
coffee,  and  wine — Madeira  from  Governor  Floyd's 
cellar,  which  Hughes  had  brought  with  him.  That 
evening  he  called  for  "another  bottle,"  after  the  rest 
were  satisfied;  but  I  never  saw  him  intoxicated,  and 
on  one  occasion  only  under  the  influence  of  wine  even 
in  a  slight  degree.  Then  his  eyes  were  a  little  glassy, 
his  manner  dogmatic,  and  he  rocked  a  little  as  he  stood 
up  in  front  of  me  and  laid  down  the  law  in  regard  to 
things  political.  Whiskey  he  hated  with  his  whole 
heart.  I  have  heard  him  curse  it  and  its  effects  most 
bitterly,  and  once  wrote,  at  his  special  request,  an 
article  beginning,  "Whiskey,  not  the  Yankee,  is  to  be 
the  master  of  the  Confederacy."  The  feebleness  of  his 
digestion  compelled  him  to  be  temperate  both  in  eating 
and  drinking.  I  have  heard  him  say  that  a  single 
glass  of  whiskey  and  water  taken  at  night,  by  prescrip- 
tion of  his  physician,  would  give  him  headache  the 
next  day. 

Coffee  was  his  favorite  stimulant,  but  I  do  not  think 

182 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

he  used  it  to  excess.  He  was  so  fond  of  it  that  he  would 
not  rest  until  he  had  taught  his  pet  terriers  to  drink  it. 
These  dogs — "Frank"  and  "Fanny"  were  their  names, 
I  believe — he  loved,  but  in  his  own  fashion.  He  de- 
lighted in  teasing  and  worrying  them;  would  pinch 
and  pull  their  ears  until  they  yelped  with  pain,  and  was 
never  more  pleased  than  when  he  succeeded  in  getting 
up  a  mild  fight  between  them.  This  was  not  easy  to 
do,  because  "Fanny"  was  "Frank's"  mother;  and, 
when  he  was  set  upon  her,  went  to  work  with  rather  a 
bad  grace,  while  she  bore  his  attacks  with  exemplary 
patience.  When  Daniel  got  tired  of  playing  with  his 
pets,  who  were  devoted  to  him,  he  would  drive  them 
away  with  his  horsewhip.  Yet  he  never  laid  on  with 
the  full  weight  of  his  hand.  He  was  cruel  to  them  at 
times,  but  never  brutal. 

I  asked  him  one  day  if  his  solitary  mode  of  life  did 
not  make  him  suffer  from  ennui.  "Yes,"  said  he, 
wearily,  "but  I  am  used  to  it." 

"Don't  you  find  solitary  feeding  injurious  to  your 
health  ?  I  tried  it  once  at  college,  and,  within  a  week, 
I  was  made  positively  sick  by  it." 

"You  are  right,"  he  replied.  "It  literally  destroys 
the  appetite.  In  Turin,  I  employed  an  Italian  count 
as  my  chef  de  cuisine.  He  was  really  an  artist  in  his 
profession,  and  exerted  all  his  powers  to  please  me. 
He  had  carte  blanche  as  to  expense,  and  sent  me  up 
every  day  the  most  tempting  dishes.  I  could  taste 
them — that  was  all.  I  never  enjoyed  a  meal  at  home. 
Whereas,  when  invited  to  dine  in  the  country  with  a 
pleasant  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen — would  you 

183 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

believe  it? — I  would  sometimes  be  helped  three  times 
to  meat." 

I  asked  him  then,  as  I  had  often  done  before,  why 
he  did  not  marry.  He  was  always  pleased  when  the 
subject  was  broached,  and  I  am  sure  we  must  have 
had,  first  and  last,  a  dozen  conversations  on  this  topic 
alone.  After  discussing  the  pros  and  cons,  he  gener- 
ally wound  up  by  declaring  that,  if  he  ever  married, 
it  must  be  with  the  explicit  understanding  that  himself 
and  his  wife  should  occupy  separate  houses.  To  this 
end,  he  often  threatened  to  buy  the  house  next  to  his 
own  and  have  a  door  cut  in  the  partition  wall,  the  key 
of  which  he  would  keep  in  his  own  pocket.  "The 
noise  of  children  and  the  gabble  of  a  woman  with  her 
lady  friends  was  something  which  he  could  not  and 
would  not  stand." 

He  was  a  warm  admirer  of  the  female  sex,  but  his 
opinion  of  them  was  not  the  most  exalted.  Social  life 
on  the  Continent  did  not  tend  to  weaken  his  natural 
prejudice  against  mankind,  and  probably  lessened  his 
esteem  for  the  fairer  portion  of  humanity.  Over  the 
mantle-shelf  in  his  chamber  hung  an  exquisite  minia- 
ture on  ivory.  The  face  was,  beyond  question,  the 
most  beautiful  I  have  ever  seen,  and  the  execution  was 
worthy  of  the  subject.  This  picture  was  presented  to 
him  by  the  lady  who  painted  it,  and  it  was  her  own 
likeness.  According  to  his  account,  she  was  titled, 
rich,  marvellously  accomplished  in  music,  painting  and 
poetry,  eccentric,  reckless  alike  of  herself  and  of  others. 
Her  name  he  would  never  tell  me.  He  confessed  to 
other  fancies  while  in  Europe,  but  did  not  acknowl- 

184 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

edge,  and  I  believe  did  not  have,  a  serious  affair  during 
the  whole  seven  years  of  his  residence  abroad.  It  is 
said  that  his  heart  was  never  touched  but  once,  and 
then  by  a  beautiful  Virginian.  This  was  before  he 
left  America.  He  told  me  frequently  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  love  a  girl  who  was  not  pretty,  and 
yet  he  would  shudder  at  the  thought  of  uniting  himself 
to  a  "pretty  fool."  It  was  to  no  purpose  that  I  in- 
sisted that  true  beauty  was  of  the  soul  alone.  He 
hooted  at  this  doctrine  as  "a  stale  lie."     Beauty  of 

if 

face  he  might  possibly  dispense  with,  but  beauty  of 
form — beauty  of  some  sort — a  graceful  figure  and  high- 
bred manner  were  absolutely  essential.  Happening, 
one  evening,  to  express  in  his  hearing  my  regret  that  I 
was  not  acquainted  with  some  young  lady  in  Richmond 
who  played  well  on  the  piano,  he  started  almost  as  if 
I  had  stabbed  him,  and  gave  vent  to  an  exclamation  of 
the  most  intense  disgust — as  if  the  bare  idea  of  a  piano- 
playing  young  lady  nauseated  him.  His  theory  about 
the  management  of  women  was  simple  and  original. 
"There  are,"  he  would  say,  "but  two  ways  to  manage 
a  woman — to  club  her  or  to  freeze  her." 

His  menage  in  1863-4  consisted  of  three  servants, 
all  males — a  cook,  an  hostler,  and  a  valet,  who  also 
acted  as  his  dining-room  servant.  His  manner  toward 
the  boy  who  waited  in  the  house  was  rough  even  to 
harshness.  He  liked  his  hostler,  and  spoke  kindly  to 
him,  whenever  I  happened  to  see  them  together.  I  do 
not  wonder  that  his  house  servants  ran  away  from  him. 
He  lost  two  within  as  many  years.  One  was  caught, 
punished  and  immediately  sold.    The  other,  for  whom 

185 


john  m.  Daniel's  latch-key 

he  offered  a  reward  of  $2,000,  made  good  his  escape. 
After  that,  he  bought  a  very  likely  woman,  nearly  white, 
who  remained  with  him  until  his  death. 

Such  was  John  M.  Daniel  at  home.  What  he  was 
at  his  office,  I  will  now  proceed  to  tell.  Whilst  I  was 
contributing  to  his  paper,  my  habit  was  to  hand  my 
article  to  the  manager  in  the  morning,  and  at  night 
I  would  go  around  to  read  the  proof.  Daniel  himself 
always  read  the  proofs,  though  not  with  as  much  pains 
as  I  liked.  He  reached  the  office  generally  between 
eight  and  nine  o'clock,  and  I  was  almost  always  there 
before  him.  In  those  days  garroters  were  abundant, 
and  the  first  thing  he  did,  after  entering  the  room,  was 
to  lay  a  Derringer  pistol,  which  he  carried  in  his  hand 
ready  for  any  emergency,  on  the  large  table  which  sat 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  This  done,  he  would  offer 
me  a  cigar — he  could  never  be  persuaded  to  smoke  a 
pipe,  and  his  cigars  were  of  the  weakest — and  then 
begin  the  work  of  examining  proofs.  First,  the  proofs 
of  the  news  columns,  then  of  legislative  or  congres- 
sional proceedings,  next  the  local  news,  and  lastly  the 
editorials.  All  these  he  examined  with  care,  altering, 
erasing,  abridging  and  adding  as  he  thought  fit.  Even 
the  advertisements  were  submitted  to  him,  and  I  have 
known  him  to  become  furious  over  an  advertisement 
which  he  thought  ought  not  to  have  been  admitted. 

He  was  the  only  newspaper  proprietor  I  ever  heard 
of  who  would  throw  out,  without  hesitation,  paying 
advertisements,  sometimes  of  much  importance  to  ad- 
vertisers, in  order  to  make  room  for  editorials,  or  for 
contributions  which  particularly  pleased  him.     Often- 

186 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

times  his  news  column  was  reduced  to  the  last  point  of 
compression  to  make  room  for  editorial  matter.  The 
make-up  of  his  paper  engaged  his  serious  attention,  and 
I  have  known  him  to  devote  nearly  half  an  hour  to  the 
discussion  of  the  question  where  such  and  such  an 
article  should  go,  and  whether  it  should  be  printed 
in  "bourgeois,"  "brevier,"  or  "leaded  minion."  He 
loved  to  have  two  or  three  really  good  editorials  in  each 
issue  of  his  paper.  Short,  pointed  articles  he  had  lit- 
tle faith  in,  believing  that  the  length  of  a  column,  or  a 
column-and-a-half,  was  essential  to  the  effect  of  an 
article.  The  London  Times  was  his  model,  and  he 
promised  himself,  in  case  the  Confederate  cause  suc- 
ceeded, to  make  the  Examiner  fully  equal  to  its  English 
model.  A  pungent  paragraph  was  relished  by  him  as 
much  as  by  any  human  being — indeed,  he  was  quick 
to  detect  excellence  in  anything,  long  or  short — but 
the  sub-editorial,  or  "leaded  minion"  column,  was 
left  apart  for  just  such  paragraphs,  and  the  dignity  of 
the  editorial  column  was  but  once,  within  my  recollec- 
tion, trenched  upon.  Even  then  the  article  was  a 
short  editorial  rather  than  a  paragraph.  It  was  near 
the  close  of  the  war,  when,  despairing  of  the  cause,  he 
urged,  in  a  few  strong  sentences,  the  duty  of  Virginia 
to  hold  herself  in  readiness  to  resume  her  sovereignty, 
and  to  act  for  herself  alone  in  the  great  emergency 
which  he  felt  was  approaching.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
this  was  the  last  article  he  ever  penned. 

Laying  so  much  stress  upon  editorials,  it  was  but 
natural  that  he  should  pay  particular  attention  to  cor- 
recting them.     This,  in  fact,  was  his  main  business  in 

187 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

coming  to  his  office  at  night.  At  times  he  preferred  to 
do  his  own  writing,  but  in  general,  and  certainly  in  the 
last  year  or  two  of  his  life,  he  much  preferred  to  have 
his  ideas  put  into  words  by  others.  Then  he  would 
alter  and  amend  to  suit  his  fastidious  taste.  Any 
fault  of  grammar  or  construction,  any  inelegance,  he 
detected  immediately.  He  improved  by  erasure  as 
much,  or  more,  than  by  addition;  but  when  a  thought 
in  the  contributed  article  was  at  all  suggestive,  he 
seldom  failed  to  add  two  or  three,  and  sometimes  ten, 
and  even  twenty  lines  to  it.  This  was  a  labor  of  love 
to  him,  and  did  not  fatigue  him  as  it  does  most  people. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  disliked  extremely  to  read  manu- 
script. This  sometimes  brought  trouble  upon  him. 
Coming  in  one  night  he  found  on  the  table  the  proof  of 
an  article  on  finance  which  I  had  written.  He  read  it 
over  carefully,  and,  to  my  surprise,  did  not  put  his 
pencil  through  a  single  line  of  it.  Whilst  I  was  plum- 
ing myself  on  this  unusual  circumstance,  he  looked  up 
at  me  and  laughed. 

"Very  well  written,"  said  he,  "but  diametrically 
opposed  to  the  views  of  the  Examiner." 

Too  old  a  hand  at  the  bellows  to  be  disgruntled  by 
this,  I  replied  quietly: 

"Pitch  it  in  the  fire." 

"What!  and  fill  two  columns  myself  between  this 
and  midnight  ?    This  is  every  line  of  editorial  on  hand." 

"I  am  really  very  sorry.  But  what  is  to  be  done? 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  write  any  more.  I  never 
can  write  after  dinner;    besides,  I  am  broken  down." 

"Let  me  see.     Let  me  see." 

188 


john  m.  Daniel's  latch-key 

He  took  up  the  unlucky  editorial,  read  it  over  more 
carefully  than  before,  and  then  said,  in  a  tone  of  great 
satisfaction:   "I  can  fix  it." 

And  so  he  did.  Sitting  down  at  the  table,  he  went 
to  work,  and  within  twenty  minutes  transformed  it 
completely.  It  appeared  the  next  morning.  There 
were  certain  awkwardnesses,  which  we  two,  who  were 
in  the  secret,  could  detect,  but  which  to  the  bulk  of  the 
readers  of  the  paper  were  doubtless  quite  imperceptible. 

When  he  had  to  write  an  article  himself,  his  first 
question,  after  the  usual  salutation,  was,  not  "What  is 
the  news?"  but  "What  are  people  talking  about?" 
and  he  upbraided  me  continually  for  not  doing  what 
he  himself  never  did,  "circulating  among  the  people." 
He  aimed  always  to  make  his  paper  interesting  by  the 
discussion  of  subjects  which  were  uppermost  in  the 
popular  mind;  nor  did  it  concern  him  much  what  the 
subject  might  be.  His  only  concern  was  that  it  should 
be  treated  in  the  Examiner  with  dignity  and  ability,  if 
it  admitted  of  such  treatment;  if  not  to  dispose  of  it 
humorously  or  wittily.  But  the  humor  or  wit  must  be 
done  cleverly  and  with  due  attention  to  style.  He 
began  to  write  about  ten  o'clock;  wrote  rapidly,  in  a 
crumpled,  ugly  hand,  and  completed  his  work,  revi- 
sion of  proofs,  and  everything  by  midnight,  or  a  little 
thereafter.  He  then  returned  to  his  house,  and  either 
sat  up  or  laid  awake  in  bed,  reading,  until  two  or  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

His  assistants  in  1863-64,  besides  reporters,  were 
the  local  editor,  J.  Marshall  Hanna;  the  news  editor, 
H.  Rives  Pollard;   and  the  editor  of  the  "leaded  min- 

189 


john  m.  Daniel's  latch-key 

ion"  or  war  column,  P.  H.  Gibson.  He  had  a  high 
opinion  of  them  all.  Pollard  he  declared  was  "the 
best  news  editor  in  the  whole  South."  Hanna  he 
pronounced  "a  genius  in  his  way,"  and  took  great 
credit  to  himself  for  having  discovered,  developed,  and 
fostered  him.  Gibson's  ability  he  acknowledged  and 
complimented  frequently  in  my  hearing. 

The  business  of  the  office  gave  him  very  little  trouble. 
He  had,  of  course,  an  eye  to  everything;  but  the  print- 
ing floor,  the  press-room,  the  sale  and  distribution  of 
papers,  mailing,  the  payment  of  employees,  the  settle- 
ment of  bills,  in  a  word,  the  finance,  outdoor  transac- 
tions, and  banking  business,  were  all  attended  to  by  R. 
F.  Walker,  the  manager.  He  had  but  a  single  book- 
keeper, a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Cary,  who  was 
also  his  cashier.  Walker  was  his  faithful  assistant  in 
everything,  from  the  purchasing  of  type,  and  glue  for 
rollers,  to  correspondence  with  men  of  business,  and 
oftentimes  with  politicians  and  contributors.  At  the 
end  of  every  week  Walker  brought  to  the  house,  on 
Broad  Street,  the  bank  book,  posted  up  to  date.  I  was 
permitted  several  times  to  look  at  this  book.  The 
net  receipts  per  week,  in  1863-4,  were  from  $1,000  to 
$  1,200  or  $1,500.  After  deducting  personal  expenses 
of  every  kind  (and  Daniel  never  stinted  himself  in 
anything),  it  may  be  safely  assumed  that  in  the  third 
year  of  the  war  the  paper  cleared  at  least  $50,000,  per- 
haps double  that  amount.  The  owner  was  often  on 
the  lookout  for  investments,  and  made  a  number  of 
purchases  of  real  estate.  He  may  have  speculated,  but 
if  he  did,  the  speculations  must  have  been  on  a  small 

190 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

scale.  During  my  visits  to  his  house  I  never  saw  there 
any  one  of  the  men  who  were  known  in  Richmond  to 
be  largely  in  speculation.  Moreover,  his  paper,  in 
common  with  others,  contained  denunciation  after  de- 
nunciation of  speculators  of  all  sorts,  and  was  particu- 
larly severe  upon  brokers,  gamblers,  and  whiskey  sel- 
lers. Toward  the  close  of  the  war,  when  investments 
of  all  sorts  were  doubtful,  I  suggested  to  him  that  he 
had  better  buy  gold.  His  reply  was,  "I  have  more 
gold  now  than  I  know  what  to  do  with."  I  am  per- 
suaded, however,  that  this  gold  was  part  of  the  $30,000 
in  coin,  or  its  equivalent,  which  he  brought  over  with 
him  from  Sardinia. 

I  have  said  that  he  never  stinted  himself,  and  this  is 
true.  His  table,  indeed,  was  never  loaded  with  luxu- 
ries and  delicacies — which  might  have  been  bought  at 
almost  any  period  of  the  war,  if  one  chose  to  pay  the 
enormous  prices  asked  for  them — for  the  reason  that 
his  digestion  would  not  tolerate  anything  but  the 
simplest  food;  but  his  self-indulgence  was  notably 
shown  in  articles  of  dress,  in  coal,  and  in  gas.  He 
brought  with  him  from  Europe  clothes  enough  to  have 
lasted  him  years,  but  he  never  scrupled  to  buy  a 
thousand-dollar  suit  whenever  he  fancied  he  needed  it. 
When  coal  was  very  high,  and  one  fire  would  have 
sufficed  him,  he  kept  two  or  three  burning.  Gas  was 
costly  in  the  extreme;  two  burners  of  his  chandelier 
would  have  afforded  him  ample  light — for  he  had  excel- 
lent eyes — but  he  was  not  content  until  he  had  all  six  of 
the  burners  at  their  full  height.  In  reply  to  my  remon- 
strance against  this  extravagance,  he  would  say  curtly: 

191 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

"I  like  plenty  of  light." 

If  at  his  house  Daniel  was  affable  and  almost  genial, 
in  his  office  he  was,  too  frequently,  on  the  other  ex- 
treme. He  loved  to  show  his  authority,  and,  as  the 
saying  is,  "to  make  things  stand  around."  His  scowl 
at  being  interrupted,  while  in  the  act  of  composing,  or 
when  otherwise  busily  engaged,  will  never  be  forgotten 
by  any  one  wrho  ever  encountered  it.  Holding  drunken 
men  in  special  detestation,  he  was,  as  by  a  fatality, 
subjected  continually  to  their  visits,  both  at  his  office 
and  at  his  house.  More  than  once  I  have  been  suffi- 
ciently diverted  by  intoxicated  officers,  just  from  the 
army,  who  called  in  to  pay,  in  person,  their  maudlin 
tribute  of  admiration  to  the  editor  of  the  Examiner. 
Sometimes  he  bore  these  visitations  with  a  patience  that 
surprised  me;  but  he  never  failed  to  remunerate  him- 
self by  awful  imprecations  upon  the  intruder  as  soon 
as  he  was  out  of  hearing.  While  his  tone  to  his  em- 
ployees was,  as  a  general  rule,  cold,  and  often  intoler- 
ably dictatorial,  I  have  seen  him,  very  frequently,  as 
affable  and  familiar  as  heart  could  wish.  Indeed,  I 
have  known  him  to  go  so  far  as  to  come  out  of  his  sanc- 
tum into  the  small  room  occupied  by  his  sub-editors 
with  the  proof  of  a  contribution  in  his  hand,  in  order 
that  they  might  enjoy  it  with  him.  Occurrences  of 
this  sort,  however,  were  rare. 

Belonging  essentially  to  the  genus  irritabile,  his  anger 
was  easily  provoked.  He  could  not  bear  to  be  crossed 
in  anything.  Whoever  said  aught  in  print  against 
"the  Examiner  newspaper,"  was  sure  to  bring  down 
upon  himself  a  torrent  of  abuse.     Possessing  in  an 

192 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

eminent  degree,  and,  indeed,  priding  himself  upon  his 
sense  of  the  becoming  and  the  decorous,  he  was  no 
sooner  engaged  in  a  newspaper  controversy  than  he 
forgot,  or  at  least  threw  behind  him,  the  sense  even  of 
decency,  and  heaped  upon  his  adversary  epithets  which 
ought  never  to  have  defiled  the  columns  of  a  respect- 
able journal.  This  was  kept  up,  sometimes,  long  after 
the  original  heat  of  the  controversy  had  abated — his 
purpose  being,  as  I  suppose,  to  give  the  opposing 
paper,  and  others,  a  lesson  which  would  never  be  for- 
gotten, and  thus  to  ensure  himself  against  similar  an- 
noyances in  the  future.  To  avoid  trouble  and  to 
maintain  the  Times-Mke  character  of  the  Examiner,  his 
rule  was  never  to  notice  the  opinions  of  other  papers, 
and  not  even  to  quote  from  them.  He  waited  to  be 
attacked;  but  when  attacked,  he  followed  the  advice  of 
Polonius  to  the  very  letter.  But  his  hottest  anger  and 
his  bitterest  maledictions  were  reserved  for  his  political 
enemies.  His  rage  against  the  administration  of  Mr. 
Davis,  and  particularly  certain  members  of  his  cabinet, 
was,  at  times,  terrible.  In  like  manner,  the  journal- 
istic partizans  of  the  administration  came  in  for  a  full 
share  of  his  fury.  I  shall  never  forget  his  excitement, 
one  night,  on  hearing  that  a  certain  article  in  the  En- 
quirer had  been  written  by  a  person  formerly  in  his 
employ.  I  can  see  him  now,  striding  up  and  down 
the  room,  exclaiming,  "111  put  a  ball  through  him!" 
"I'll  put  a  ball  through  him!"  This  sentence  he  re- 
peated fully  twenty  times,  and  in  a  tone  which  gave 
assurance  of  a  purpose  quite  as  deadly  as  his  words 
imported.     Yet  nothing  came  of  it.     He  was  a  hearty 

193 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

and  persistent  hater,  but  he  was  not  implacable.  Dur- 
ing his  stormy  life  he  had  many  fallings  out  and  many 
makings  up.  It  is  not  unsafe  to  assert  that  he  never 
had  a  friend  with  whom,  at  some  time,  he  did  not  have 
a  misunderstanding;  yet  it  is  certain  that  he  died  in 
perfect  peace,  and  on  good  terms  with  all,  or  nearly  all, 
of  his  old  friends.  One  of  the  last  and  most  pleasing 
acts  of  his  life  was  the  glad  acceptance  with  which  he 
met  the  advance  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Thomas  H.  Wynne, 
from  whom  he  had  been  estranged  during  nearly  the 
whole  war. 

His  enmity  to  Mr.  Davis,  amounting  to  something 
like  a  frenzy,  will  be  ascribed,  by  those  who  differed 
from  him  in  opinion,  to  a  bad  heart,  pique  at  not  being 
made  the  confidential  friend  of  the  president,  or  at  not 
having  been  sent  abroad  in  a  diplomatic  capacity. 
But  by  those,  on  the  other  hand,  who  agreed  with  him 
in  thinking  that  the  cause  suffered  more  from  mal- 
administration than  from  anything  or  all  things  else, 
his  course  will  not  be  so  harshly  judged;  and  their 
chief  regret  will  be  that  arguments  so  forcible  as 
Daniel's  were  not  left  to  produce  their  effect,  unaided, 
or  rather  unimpeded,  by  diatribe  and  invective.  To 
reconcile  these  conflicting  opinions  is  impossible,  and 
if  it  were  not,  is  beyond  the  intent  and  aim  of  this 
sketch.  I  remember  asking  him  once  whether  Mr. 
Davis  ever  saw  his  animadversions  upon  him. 

"They  tell  me  down  stairs,"  he  replied,  "that  the 
first  person  here  in  the  morning  is  Jeff.  Davis's  body 
servant.  He  comes  before  daylight,  and  says  that  his 
master  can't  get  out  of  bed  or  eat  his  breakfast  until  his 

194 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

appetite  is  stimulated  by  reading  every  word  in  the 
Examiner." 

"Do  you  think  he  profits  by  its  perusal?" 

"Unquestionably.  The  few  sound  ideas  he  ever 
had  came  from  the  Examiner" 

This  he  said  with  perfect  sincerity,  for  he  contended, 
both  in  the  paper  and  out  of  it,  that  every  wise  and 
useful  measure  which  had  been  promulgated  by  the 
administration  or  by  Congress,  was  borrowed  or  stolen 
from  the  Examiner. 

He  was  proud  of  his  paper.  If  he  sometimes  re- 
garded it  as  "a  mill-stone  about  his  neck,"  he  never- 
theless devoted  his  life  to  it,  and  found  in  it  his  chief 
happiness.  He  looked  to  it  as  a  source  of  power  and 
wealth  in  the  future.  Of  that  future,  he  was  more 
sanguine  than  any  man  I  ever  knew.  How  well  I 
remember  the  night  he  said  to  me,  without  provocation, 
if  I  recollect  aright: 

"I  shall  live  to  eat  the  goose  that  eats  the  grass  over 
your  grave." 

Perhaps  there  was  something  in  my  appearance  which 
called  forth  the  remark,  for  I  must  have  been  worn  by 
the  enormous  amount  of  work  I  was  then  doing. 

I  looked  up  from  the  table,  where  I  sat  writing,  and 
said  quietly: 

"I  don't  doubt  it;   but  what  makes  you  say  so?" 

"Two  reasons;  I  come  of  a  long-lived  race,  and  I 
have  an  infallible  sign  of  longevity." 

"What  is  that?" 

"I  never  dreamed — my  sleep  is  always  sound  and 
refreshing." 

195 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

Little  did  I  then  think  that  before  two  years  were 
ended,  I  should  see  him  in  his  coffin.  He  was  mis- 
taken, however,  in  saying  that  he  came  of  a  long-lived 
race.  His  father  was  not  old  when  he  died,  and  his 
mother  was  comparatively  young  when  she  came  to 
her  death — of  consumption,  if  I  mistake  not.  He  was 
thinking,  probably,  of  his  uncle,  Judge  Daniel,  more 
than  his  parents.  His  own  health  was  never  robust; 
his  constitution  was  delicate,  as  a  glance  at  his  figure 
showed.  His  chest  was  narrow  and  rather  shallow, 
though  not  sunken,  and  his  hips  were  broad.  The 
organs  of  digestion  and  respiration  were  alike  feeble. 
He  had  had  an  attack  of  pneumonia  before  going  to 
Europe,  and  during  his  whole  life  he  was  a  victim  of 
dyspepsia,  from  which  he  had  suffered  greatly  in  youth 
and  early  manhood.  I  often  warned  him  against  the 
injudicious  and  frequent  use  of  blue  mass,  his  favorite 
medicine.  Great  virile  strength  he  had,  as  was  shown 
by  his  dense  beard  and  the  coarse  hair  on  his  feminine 
hands,  but  in  muscle,  sinew  and  bone  he  was  deficient. 
He  took  great  care  of  himself.  I  was  told  that  when 
he  returned  to  Richmond  his  person  was  protected  by  a 
triple  suit  of  underclothing.  Next  to  his  skin  he  wore 
flannel;  over  that,  buckskin,  and  over  that  again,  silk. 
This  load  of  clothing  he  contended  was  indispensable 
to  health  in  Turin,  where  the  atmospheric  changes 
were  very  violent  and  sudden.  In  Richmond  he  dis- 
pensed with  some  of  this  undergear,  but  probably  gave 
up  only  the  buckskin.  Among  other  items  which  he 
gave  a  Maryland  blockade  runner,  who  waited  on  him 
one  day  while  I  was  present,  was  an  order  for  "one 

196 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

dozen  silk  shirts  of  the  largest  size."  This  size  he 
particularly  insisted  on,  and  the  inference  was  that  he 
intended  to  wear  them  over  flannel.  What  availed  all 
these  precautions  when  the  final  summons  came? 

Long  as  this  article  is,  I  cannot  close  it  without  some 
allusion  to  John  M.  Daniel  as  an  editor  and  as  a  man. 
He  was  born  an  editor.  Whatever  may  have  been  his 
abilities  as  a  diplomatist  and  a  politician,  whatever 
distinction  he  might  have  attained  in  the  forum  or  in 
the  field,  his  forte  lay  decidedly  in  the  department  of 
letters,  and  more  especially  in  the  conduct  of  a  news- 
paper. He  was  not  a  poet,  not  a  historian,  a  novelist, 
an  essayist,  or  even,  if  I  may  coin  the  word,  a  maga- 
zinist.  He  had  talent  enough  to  have  excelled  in  any 
or  all  of  these,  but  his  taste  led  him  in  another  direction. 
It  was  hoped  by  everybody  that  he  would  on  his  return 
home  write  a  volume  about  his  residence  in  Europe. 
Such  a  book  would  have  been  exceedingly  interesting 
and  valuable.  But  he  was  not  a  book-maker.  More- 
over, it  is  not  improbable  that  he  expected  to  return  to 
diplomatic  life,  and  did  not  wish  to  embarrass  himself 
by  reflections  upon  the  manners  and  customs  of  the 
people  among  whom  he  expected  to  reside.  He  could 
not  have  written  about  the  Italians  or  any  other  people 
without  dipping  his  pen  in  vitriol.  The  publication 
of  a  part  of  one  of  his  letters  to  his  friend,  Dr.  Peticolas, 
had  brought  him  into  trouble  with  the  Italians,  and 
made  him  furious  with  his  associate,  Hughes,  who 
took  charge  of  the  Examiner  in  his  absence.  This 
occurred  early  in  his  career  as  a  diplomat,  and  made 
him  cautious.     He  preserved  his  dispatches  with  ut- 

197 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

most  care,  in  large  handsomely  bound  volumes;  but 
whether  with  a  view  to  publication  or  for  his  own  use 
in  after  years,  I  am  unable  to  say. 

I  remember  his  telling  me  one  night  that  he  in- 
tended to  make  a  book. 

"I  wish  you  would,"  said  I. 

"Mark  you,  I  did  not  say  write  a  book,  but  make 
a  book." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  to  make  a  book  with  the  scissors,"  he 
replied. 

"How  so?" 

"Why,  by  taking  the  files  of  the  Examiner  from  its 
foundation  to  the  present  time,  and  clipping  the  best 
things  from  them.  I  am  sure  that  I  could  in  this  way 
make  a  book,  consisting  of  a  number  of  volumes,  which 
would  contain  more  sense,  more  wit  and  more  humor 
than  anything  that  has  been  published  in  this  country 
for  the  last  twenty  years.  Similar  publications  have 
been  made  in  England  in  modern  times,  and  long  since 
the  days  of  the  Spectator  and  the  Rambler,  and  they 
have  succeeded.  I  believe  that  the  best  things  which 
have  appeared  in  the  Examiner,  if  put  into  book  form, 
would  compare  favorably  with  any  English  publica- 
tion of  the  kind,  and  that  the  book  would  command  a 
ready  sale." 

So  far  as  my  personal  knowledge  goes,  this  is  the 
only  book  which  John  M.  Daniel  ever  thought  seri- 
ously of  making.  I  agreed  with  him  then,  and  I  can 
but  think  now,  that  the  present  owners  of  the  Examiner 
would  do  well  to  carry  out  his  view?.     In  the  impover- 

198 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

ished  condition  of  the  South,  at  this  precise  time,  it  is 
idle  to  expect  a  very  large  sale  of  any  publication  what- 
soever; but  the  day  will  come,  I  trust,  when  the  bound 
volume  of  selections  from  the  Examiner  will  have  a 
place  in  every  Southern  gentleman's  library. 

John  M.  Daniel  was  emphatically  an  editor — not  a 
newspaper  contributor,  but  an  editor  and  a  politician. 
He  was  enough  of  the  latter  to  have  made  a  name  in 
the  cabinet.  He  was  no  orator,  although  he  had  an 
orator's  mouth.  I  never  heard  of  his  making  a  public 
speech.  He  must  have  had  a  great  natural  repugnance 
to  speaking.  Could  he  have  overcome  this  repugnance, 
he  had  command  enough  of  language  to  have  ensured 
him  considerable  distinction  in  forensic  display;  but 
his  temper  was  far  too  hot  and  quick  to  admit  of  suc- 
cess in  debate.  He  knew  men,  in  the  light  in  which  a 
politician  views  them,  thoroughly  well.  His  natural 
faculty  of  weighing  measures  and  of  foreseeing  their 
effects  was  much  above  the  common.  He  had  in  him 
the  elements  of  a  statesman.  His  historical  studies 
and  his  knowledge  of  mankind  were  not  in  vain.  Be- 
fore the  first  blow  was  struck,  and  when  both  Mr. 
Benjamin  and  Mr.  Seward,  speaking  the  sentiments 
of  their  respective  peoples,  were  issuing  their  "ninety 
days  notes,"  he  prophesied  not  only  the  magnitude, 
but  the  inhuman  and  unchristian  ferocity  of  the  late 
war.  And  who,  in  this  sad  hour,  can  forget  how,  as 
the  struggle  drew  near  its  close,  he  strove  day  after  day 
and  week  after  week  to  revive  the  flagging  spirits,  and 
to  kindle  anew  the  energy  and  courage  of  the  Southern 
people,  by  terrible  pictures  of  the  fate  which  has  ever 

199 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

attended  "oppressed  nationalities?"  It  is  true  that 
these  articles  were  written  by  John  Mitchell;  but  they 
were  inspired  by  Daniel.  Alas!  those  prophecies,  like 
all  others,  have  been  interpreted  fully  only  in  their 
completion. 

As  a  politician,  eminence  was  not  his.  Had  he 
lived,  it  is  as  certain  as  anything  human  can  be,  that 
he  would  have  filled  an  honored  niche  in  the  temple  of 
political  fame;  but  his  celebrity  was  destined  to  be 
confined  to  the  domain  of  journalism.  Therein  he 
obtained  a  distinction  which  has  been  surpassed  by 
none  and  equalled  but  by  few  American  journalists. 
His  place  is  by  the  side  of  Thomas  Ritchie,  Hampden 
Pleasants  and  Joseph  Gales.  As  an  editor,  he  was  to 
politicians  what  the  Earl  of  Warwick  was  to  kings. 

"It  is  said,"  he  remarked  to  me  one  day,  "that  my 
admiration  for  Floyd  is  due  to  the  fact  that  Floyd 
made  me.     The  truth  is,  I  made  Floyd." 

He  was  accustomed  to  magnify  his  office  of  editor, 
and  his  exalted  opinion  of  General  Floyd  was  based, 
not  upon  gratitude,  but  upon  his  estimate  of  the  man 
himself.  It  has  been  said  that  the  quality  which 
women  most  admire  in  men  is  "strength."  The  as- 
sertion holds  equally  good  of  man's  admiration  for 
man,  and  is  particularly  true  in  regard  to  John  M. 
Daniel.  He  worshipped  strength,  and  nothing  but 
strength  of  mind  and  of  body.  He  despised  fools  and 
weaklings  of  all  sorts.  Goodness — the  moral  qualities 
— he  threw  entirely  out  of  the  account.  He  did  not 
much  believe  in  the  existence  of  these  qualities,  and 
when  they  did  exist,  he  regarded  them  as  but  evidences 

200 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

of  weakness.  Floyd  was  his  "man  of  bronze" — there- 
fore he  liked  him.  Of  another  and  more  distinguished 
politician  he  would  speak  in  terms  of  extreme  con- 
tempt. "He  snivels — he  weeps,"  he  would  say,  in 
tones  of  indescribable  disgust.  Often  have  I  heard 
him  expatiate  upon  Wigfall's  magnificent  physique  and 
his  unmistakable  natural  courage.  "It  is  the  genuine 
thing,"  he  would  say.  "There  is  no  put  on  there.  He 
has  got  native  pluck — the  actual  article;  it  is  no  strain 
on  him  to  exhibit  it.  The  grit  is  in  him,  and  you 
can't  shake  him." 

Of  Daniel's  own  courage,  I  think  I  can  speak  safely 
and  correctly;  and  I  may  as  well  do  so  here,  although 
I  had  intended  to  defer  mention  of  it  until  I  came  to 
the  discussion  of  his  character  as  a  man. 

He  did  not  have  the  hard  animal  bravery  of  Wigfall; 
it  was  not  in  his  constitution.  His  highly  wrought 
nervous  system  was  not  sufficiently  panoplied  with 
brawn  to  ensure  it  against  the  agitation  arising  from 
a  sudden  shock  or  the  violence  of  an  unexpected  attack 
with  the  fist  or  club.  Nor  was  he  of  that  tough  and 
wiry  make  which  enables  some  fragile  men  to  meet  the 
rudest  physical  assaults  without  an  outward  tremor. 
But  he  had  courage  of  another  sort,  and  had  it  in  a 
high  degree.  What  is  generally  called  moral  courage, 
but  is  more  properly  intellectual  courage — that  is, 
bravery  which  is  founded  not  upon  combativeness,  the 
consciousness  of  muscular  strength,  or  upon  great  ex- 
citability unrestrained  by  caution,  but  upon  the  clear 
perception  of  the  nature  and  extent  of  danger,  together 
with  the  hardihood  of  great  self-esteem  and  pride  of 

201 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

character — he  possessed  to  an  extent  which  is  rarely 
seen.  To  make  a  reputation,  he  commenced  his  edi- 
torial career  by  attacking  personally  nearly  every  man 
of  note  in  Virginia,  thereby  incurring  a  responsibility 
in  the  field  and  out  of  it — for  it  rested  with  the  parties 
assailed  to  demand  satisfaction  according  to  the  code 
or  to  take  it  at  the  pistol's  mouth  in  the  street,  as 
seemed  best  in  their  eyes — which  few  men  of  the 
strongest  nerve  would  have  dared  to  assume. 

He  lived  in  a  land  where  duels  were  common;  in  a 
city  where  the  editor  of  the  Whig  had  been  slain  but 
a  few  years  before,  and  among  a  people  who  never 
entertained  the  first  thought  of  accepting  damages  at 
law  as  reparation  for  a  personal  affront;  hence  the 
course  of  the  Examiner  during  its  earlier  years  was 
attended  with  a  degree  of  danger  which  none  but  a 
truly  daring  or  a  foolhardy  man  would  ever  have 
encountered.  But  Daniel  was  no  fool;  and  although 
he  lacked  caution  and  allowed  the  bitterness  of  his 
feelings  to  carry  him  too  far,  he  was  anything  but 
reckless.  Appreciating  fully  his  danger,  he  willingly 
risked  his  life  and  his  reputation  in  order  to  secure  the 
advantages  which  lay  beyond  the  point  he  so  coolly 
braved.  To  carry  his  point,  he  accepted  cheerfully 
the  odium  of  the  community,  and,  indeed,  of  the  whole 
State  in  which  he  lived.  For  the  sake  of  power  and  a 
competency,  he  became  an  outcast  from  society.  At 
one  time  he  was  literally  hated  or  feared  by  everybody. 
In  the  whole  world  there  was  scarcely  a  human  being 
who  really  liked  him  for  himself.  All  this  he  brought 
upon   himself,   deliberately   and   for  a   purpose.     He 

202 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

marked  out  an  arduous  course,  and  he  followed  that 
course  resolutely  to  the  last  day  of  his  life,  accepting 
all  the  consequences.  Surely,  neither  a  weak  nor  a 
timid  man  could  have  done  this.  Assaulted  suddenly 
in  the  streets  by  a  powerful  man,  of  known  courage, 
who  threatened  then  and  there  to  cut  his  ears  off,  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  that  the  fragile  man  showed  some 
agitation;  but  his  intrepid  "you  shall  have  your  duel" 
in  the  admirable  correspondence  with  Elmore,  and  his 
calm  bearing  on  the  field  in  the  very  presence  of  death 
(for  his  adversary  was  no  trifler),  proved  beyond  ques- 
tion that  John  M.  Daniel  had  that  within  him  which 
men  in  every  age  have  recognized  as  genuine  courage. 
To  return  from  this  digression:  He  was  an  editor 
in  the  best  and  fullest  meaning  of  the  word.  He 
could  not  only  write  himself,  and  write  well,  but  he 
could  make  others  write  well.  The  crudest  articles, 
as  I  have  shown,  if  they  had  but  the  germ  of  some- 
thing good  in  them,  could  be  transformed  by  him  in  a 
few  moments,  with  an  ease  and  an  art  peculiarly  his 
own,  into  powerful  leaders.  A  touch  or  two  of  his  pen 
gave  a  new  coloring  to  a  contribution  and  made  it  his 
own.  He  had  the  power  of  infusing  his  spirit  into 
every  part  of  his  paper,  and  of  giving  it  thereby  an 
individuality  which  made  it  as  attractive  as  it  was 
unique.  He  had  innumerable  editorial  contributors, 
but  they  all  caught,  insensibly  and  quietly,  his  spirit, 
his  very  tone;  and  there  was  about  the  Examiner ; 
whenever  he  was  at  the  head  of  it,  a  homogeneity 
which  under  other  managers  it  never  attained.  It 
was  easy  to  tell  when  he  left  the  paper  and  when  he 

203 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

came  back  to  it.  His  precise  articles  could  not  always 
be  told,  but  there  was  a  nameless  something  about 
the  paper,  as  a  whole,  which  gave  indubitable  evidence 
of  his  presence.  The  very  arrangement  of  the  printed 
matter  and  the  allocation  of  articles  betrayed  him  be- 
hind the  scenes.  He  brought  with  him,  as  often  as  he 
resumed  the  helm,  a  magnetic  charm  which  drew  to  the 
paper  the  cleverest  things  which  were  written  by  any- 
body. Whoever  chanced  to  do  a  good  thing  with  the 
pen  was  anxious  for  it  to  appear  in  the  Examiner. 
There  it  would  be  read  by  more  people  and  be  better 
appreciated  than  in  any  other  paper.  The  credit 
would  be  Daniel's,  but  what  of  that  ?  The  intellectual 
bantling  would  be  sure  not  to  die  still-born.  It  would 
make  a  noise  and  be  talked  about;  its  unknown 
parent  would  hear  its  praises  and  be  secretly  proud. 

Many  men  have  written  for  the  Examiner,  and 
some  have  conducted  it  with  ability;  but  it  has  never 
been,  and  it  may  be  fairly  reckoned  that  it  never  will 
be,  edited  as  it  was  by  John  M.  Daniel.  He  had  not 
the  humor,  and  he  may  not  have  had  the  wit  of  some 
of  the  contributors;  nor  did  he  have  the  financial 
knowledge  or  the  scientific  attainments  of  others  who 
wrote  for  him;  but  he  made  a  better  editor  than  any 
or  all  of  those  combined  could  have  made.  The  truth 
of  this  assertion  will  be  understood  fully  when  I  call 
the  names  of  some  of  his  contributors.  They  are  as 
follows:  Robert  W.  Hughes,  Patrick  Henry  Aylett, 
William  Old,  Dr.  A.  E.  Peticolas,  Edward  A.  Pollard, 
L.  Q.  Washington,  Prof.  Basil  Gildersleeve,  John  R. 
Thompson  and  John  Mitchell.     Some  of  these  gentle- 

204 


john  m.  Daniel's  latch-key 

men  have  had  the  paper  entirely  in  their  charge  for 
months  at  a  time,  but  it  is  no  disparagement  to  them 
to  say  that  the  paper  in  their  hands  was  never  what  it 
was  in  the  hands  of  John  M.  Daniel.  He  had  in  him 
an  intensity  of  bitterness  which  they  did  not  possess, 
and  would  not  have  displayed  if  they  had  possessed. 
He  had  a  strength  of  originality,  an  art  of  attracting 
contributions  and  of  shaping  them  into  his  own  simili- 
tude, and  what  is  most  to  the  point,  a  painstaking 
attention  to  the  minutiae  of  the  paper,  which,  combined, 
made  him  an  editor  whose  equal,  in  all  respects,  has 
never  been  seen  in  this  country. 

He  had  little,  and  if  his  own  opinion  were  taken,  not 
a  particle  of  humor.  He  was  too  bitter  for  that.  But 
he  had  the  quickest  and  keenest  appreciation  of  the 
humorous.  Dickens  was  a  favorite  with  him.  Nay, 
he  had,  he  must  have  had,  humor  of  his  own.  Wit 
he  had  in  a  high  degree,  and  of  every  sort;  but  he  was 
particularly  happy  in  nicknaming  and  in  personalities 
of  all  kinds.  Some  of  those  names  showed  both  wit 
and  humor;  as  when  he  called  the  cadets  of  the  Vir- 
ginia Military  Institute,  on  the  occasion  of  their  first 
visit  to  Richmond,  "kildees,"  a  title  which,  as  it 
seemed  to  belittle  them,  made  the  cadets  very  angry, 
but  which  was,  nevertheless,  so  appropriate  and  so 
harmless  that  everybody  laughed  good-naturedly  at  it. 
The  appellation  of  "leaden  gimlet,"  which  he  applied 
to  a  certain  lawyer  in  Richmond,  is  an  example  of 
galling  satire,  without  the  least  admixture  of  the  milk 
of  human  kindness.  The  office  of  Mr.  Benjamin,  the 
Secretary  of  State,  contained  files  of  the  leading  news- 

205 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

papers  of  the  Confederacy;  and  hence  it  was  called  by 
Daniel  "the  Confederate  Reading  Room" — a  name 
intended  to  convey  his  contempt  at  once  for  the  office 
and  the  official  who  occupied  it. 

He  had  a  lively  fancy,  but  little  or  no  imagination 
in  the  higher  sense  of  the  term.  Certainly  he  had  not 
the  creative  faculty.  I  do  not  know  that  he  ever 
attempted  rhyme,  much  less  poetry  or  dramatic  char- 
acterization. His  mind  was  logical,  but  dry  and 
elaborate  argumentation  was  not  to  his  liking.  He 
caught  readily  the  salient  points  of  a  question,  and 
aimed,  in  writing,  to  present  them  forcibly,  but  not 
with  too  much  brevity.  I  saw  him  return  to  the  au- 
thor a  number  of  editorials  which  I  thought  excellent, 
and  asked  him  why  he  did  so.  "They  are  well  writ- 
ten," said  he,  "in  fact,  they  are  elegantly  written;  but 
there  is  no  incision  in  them." 

His  reading  was  various  and  extensive,  his  memory 
first-rate.  He  told  me  that,  during  his  residence 
abroad,  he  not  only  made  himself  familiar  with  Italian 
and  French  literature,  but  read,  in  addition,  every 
Latin  author  of  celebrity,  and  many  whose  names 
were  almost  wholly  unknown.  Greek  he  neglected, 
and  he  paid  little  attention  to  German.  History,  biog- 
raphy, memoirs,  political  treatises,  novels,  poetry,  and 
essays  of  the  better  class,  he  literally  devoured,  and 
retained  with  wonderful  fidelity  everything  of  import- 
ance that  he  had  ever  read.  He  cared  little,  I  think, 
for  metaphysics,  or  for  the  exact  sciences,  and  discov- 
ered less  information  in  regard  to  anatomy  and  phys- 
iology than  many  men  of  ordinary  capacity  and  edu- 

206 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

cation.  He  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  learned  man. 
His  taste  was  pure  and  correct;  his  love  of  "English 
undefiled"  very  great.  Yet  he  was  not  a  slavish  pur- 
ist. His  peculiar  spelling  was  but  a  mark  of  his  infi- 
nite detestation  of  Webster  as  a  New  England  Yankee. 
His  favorite  authors  were  Voltaire  and  Swift.  The 
latter  was  his  model.  He  often  urged  me  to  study 
Swift  diligently,  in  preference  to  Addison,  Dryden, 
Milton,  or  any  other  English  author,  ancient  or  modern. 
It  remains  for  me  to  speak  of  him  in  his  personal 
character,  and  this  I  shall  do  as  briefly  as  I  can.  He 
who  has  ever  looked  unflinchingly  into  his  own  heart 
will  be  slow  to  bring  against  another  the  accusation 
which  so  many  were  fond  of  bringing  against  John 
M.  Daniel — that  he  was  "a  bad  man."  That  he  was 
essentially  and  thoroughly  "bad,"  no  one  who  knew 
him  intimately  will  charge.  De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum. 
Upon  that  principle  alone  I  should  exonerate  him  from 
the  charge.  But  more  than  that,  I  saw  and  heard  too 
much  to  allow  me,  for  an  instant,  to  yield  assent  to 
every  sweeping  indictment  against  the  character  of  the 
dead  Virginian.  Whilst  he  was  yet  extremely  poor, 
he  went  twenty  miles  to  lend  a  still  poorer  friend  some 
money;  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  save  himself  an  ex- 
pense which  he  could  ill  afford,  walked  the  whole  dis- 
tance between  Richmond  and  Petersburg  and  back 
again.  This  does  not  argue  a  bad  heart.  He  bore 
his  poverty  manfully,  denied  himself  and  "owed  no 
man  anything."  Such  is  not  the  wont  of  bad  men. 
I  know  it  gave  him  sincere  pleasure  to  compose  a 
quarrel,  and,  when  called  upon,   he  exerted  himself 

207 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

energetically  to  accomplish  that  end.  But  bad  men 
prefer  to  stir  up  strife,  rather  than  to  allay  it.  I  know 
that  he  made  a  trip  to  Charlottesville  for  the  purpose 
of  buying  a  house  advertised  for  sale  at  auction,  which 
house  he  intended  to  rent  cheaply  to  me,  in  order  that 
I  might  escape  the  grinding  exactions  of  city  landlords. 
And  this  he  did  at  my  request.  Is  it  the  habit  of  bad 
men  to  undertake  such  journeys  in  the  interest  of  those 
who  have  no  special  claim  on  them?  I  know  that  at 
a  time  when  nearly  every  property  owner  in  Richmond 
seemed  almost  conscienceless  in  their  extortions,  the 
houses  purchased  by  John  M.  Daniel,  and  fitted  up  by 
him  at  no  trifling  expense,  were  rented  to  his  assistant 
editors  on  terms  most  reasonable.  Is  this  the  practice 
of  bad  men  ?  That  Daniel  was  not  liberal  and  open- 
hearted  I  will  admit.  But  he  was  not  a  screw.  He 
was  just,  upright  in  his  dealings,  prompt  to  the  minute 
in  all  his  payments.  His  printers,  his  writers,  all  in 
his  employ,  were  better  paid  than  those  in  any  other 
newspaper  office  in  the  city.  If  this  be  the  habit  of 
bad  men,  what  pity  it  is  that  the  world  is  not  full  of 
them! 

That  he  treated  his  relatives  with  unkindness,  and 
that  the  hardships  he  endured  in  the  days  of  his  pov- 
erty were  no  sufficient  excuse  for  this  unkindness,  no 
one  who  has  heard  both  sides  of  the  question  will  deny. 
But  the  man  was  morbid,  both  in  body  and  in  mind. 
One  of  the  evidences  of  insanity  laid  down  in  the 
books  is  a  causeless  hatred  of  the  nearest  and  best  rela- 
tives and  friends.  I  do  not  say  or  believe  that  John 
M.   Daniel  was   insane.     Nevertheless,  his  bitterness 

208 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

toward  people  in  general,  and  toward  certain  kindred 
in  particular,  betokened  anything  but  mental  sound- 
ness. His  body,  perhaps,  was  never  entirely  free  from 
disease.  The  tubercular  disposition,  with  a  tendency 
to  development  in  that  part  of  the  system  (the  diges- 
tive organs)  the  disorders  of  which  are  known  to  affect 
the  mind  more  powerfully  than  any  others,  may  ac- 
count for  many  of  those  unfortunate  peculiarities  which 
contradistinguished  him  from  healthier  and  happier 
men.  Had  he  possessed  a  florid  complexion  and  a 
robust  organism,  who  believe  that  his  faults  would 
have  been  the  same?  Temperament  is  not  an  ade- 
quate excuse  for  every  failing,  but  due  allowance  should 
ever  be  made  for  its  influence. 

Added  to  his  bodily  infirmities,  there  was  a  want  of 
faith  in  human  nature  and  its  Great  Author.  Yet  he 
was  by  no  means  an  atheist,  but  rather  a  deist.  I  ques- 
tioned him  very  gravely  one  day  concerning  his  belief 
in  God.  He  paused  for  some  time,  and  then  answered 
very  cautiously  and  vaguely.  The  impression  left  on 
my  mind  was  that  he  believed  in  a  Great  First  Cause, 
but  wished  for  more  light.  Touching  the  revelation  of 
the  New  Testament,  he  gave  no  opinion.  He  seemed, 
however,  to  think  that  really  nothing  was  known  in 
regard  to  the  "bourne  whence  no  traveller  returns."* 

*  The  following  incident,  recently  communicated  to  me,  may 
be  relied  on  as  strictly  true,  and  serves  still  further  to  illustrate 
Daniel's  character: 

Dr.  Rawlings  said  to  Walker  some  weeks  before  Daniel's 
death:  "Walker,  Daniel  must  die.  You  seem  to  be  able  to 
talk  to  him  at  all  times  without  offending  him,  and,  if  you  think 
proper,  the  next  time  you  find  him  in  a  calm  frame  of  mind,  you 

209 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

When  this  subject  was  broached,  neither  of  us  dreamed 
that  he  was  so  soon  to  explore  that  unknown  world, 
which  lay  dark  and  unfathomable  before  him.  But  a 
few  evenings  before  he  had  congratulated  himself  upon 
the  position  he  had  gained  in  the  world. 

"I  am  still  young,"  said  he;  "not  very  young,  either, 
for  I  will  soon  be  forty.  But  I  know  no  young  man 
who  has  better  prospects  than  myself,  and  few  who 
have  done  so  well.  I  suppose  I  am  worth  now  nearly 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  good  money.  The 
Examiner  is  very  valuable  property,  and  destined  to 
be  much  more  so.  I  expect  to  live  long,  and,  if  I  do, 
I  shall  be  rich.  When  I  am  rich  I  shall  buy  the  old 
family  estate  in  Stafford  County,  and  shall  add  to  it  all 
the  land  for  miles  around.  I  shall  build  a  house  to  my 
fancy,  and,  with  my  possessions  walled  in,  I  shall 
teach  these  people  what  they  never  knew — how  to  live 
like  a  gentleman." 

may  ask  him  if  he  would  like  to  converse  with  a  minister  of  the 
Gospel."  Knowing  Daniel's  dislike  to  most  preachers,  Walker 
thought  over  the  matter  several  days  before  he  could  muster 
courage  to  bring  up  the  subject.  One  morning  when  he  seemed 
stronger  and  perfectly  free  from  pain,  Walker  sat  some  moments, 
very  nervous  and  almost  afraid  to  allude  to  the  matter;  but  at 
length  he  said:  "Mr.  Daniel,  you  have  always  thought  a  great 
deal  of  Dr.  Hoge;  you  believe  he  is  a  sincere,  good  man."  He 
replied,  very  promptly,  "Well,  what  of  it?"  Walker  answered, 
'•'  You  are  very  ill,  and  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  like  to  have 
him  call  on  you  and  talk  with  you."  He  looked  up,  smilingly, 
and  said,  "Walker,  /  am  no  woman!  I  don't  want  any  one  but 
yourself  to  come  into  this  room  except  the  doctor."  He  never 
alluded  to  his  being  dangerously  ill  save  once,  when  he  said  to 
Walker,  "Send  word  to  your  wife  that  you  will  sleep  in  my 
house  to-night.  Something  may  happen  before  morning,  and 
I  want  you  with  me." 

210 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

Such,  in  effect,  and  almost  in  words,  was  the  picture 
he  drew  of  his  future.  It  was  the  first  and  only  time  I 
ever  knew  him  to  indulge  his  fancy  in  building  air  castles. 

I  may  add,  as  one  additional  proof  that  he  was  not 
an  atheist,  the  fact  that  he  made  it  a  rule  to  publish  in 
the  Examiner,  on  each  succeeding  New  Year's  day,  a 
poem  in  honor  of  the  Deity.  He  did  this,  not  merely 
because  he  thought  it  a  becoming  and  good  old  custom, 
but  because  it  was  real  gratification  to  him  to  do  so. 
He  bestowed  much  thought  on  the  selection  of  this 
New  Year's  poem,  singled  it  out  months  beforehand, 
and  sometimes  consulted  his  friends  to  ascertain 
whether  there  was  not  some  poem  of  the  kind  with 
which  he  was  not  acquainted.  He  certainly  asked  me 
to  aid  him  in  making  such  a  selection,  and  I  have  no 
reason  to  believe  that  he  did  not  consult  others  also. 

He  hated  men,  but  not  mankind.  To  the  latter  he 
was  indifferent.  But  he  despised  men  more  than  he 
hated  them.  It  had  been  his  misfortune  to  view  men 
from  two  inauspicious  standpoints — from  poverty  on 
the  one  hand,  and  from  power  on  the  other — and  in 
each  case  the  picture  was  distorted  by  the  medium  of 
a  morbid  physical  and  mental  nature.  Proud,  with 
the  pride  of  an  acute  and  bold  intellect,  he  fancied,  in 
his  days  of  penury,  that  he  was  contemned  and  neg- 
lected, when  he  knew  he  had  that  within  him  which 
was  to  be  neither  neglected  nor  contemned.  After  he 
had  proved  this,  after  he  had  become  famous,  prosper- 
ous and  powerful,  he  despised  men,  because  he  fancied 
they  envied  him  his  prosperity,  feared  his  power  and 
hated    himself.     "Man    pleased    him    not;     no,    nor 

211 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

woman  either,"  because  his  sad  experience  had  taught 
him  to  suspect  the  purity  of  all  motives.  A  little 
genuine  humility,  a  moderate  degree  of  success, 
achieved  in  some  other  way  than  by  attacking  and 
overpowering  antagonists,  would  have  made  him  a 
happier,  wiser,  and  better  man.  He  dreaded  power 
in  others,  because,  as  he  confessed  to  me,  he  knew  its ! 
baneful  effects  upon  himself.  He  had  no  faith  in  men, 
because  he  knew  how  terrible  would  be  the  conse- 
quences if  no  obstacle  stood  between  men  and  the 
accomplishments  of  their  secret  desires.  He  startled 
me  one  day  by  saying:  "How  long  do  you  think  you 
would  live,  if  your  enemies  had  their  way  with  you? 
Perhaps  you  think  you  have  no  enemies  who  hate  you 
enough  to  kill  you.  You  are  greatly  mistaken.  Every 
man  has  his  enemies.  I  have  them  by  the  thousand, 
and  you  have  them  too,  though  not  so  numerous  as 
mine.  Neither  your  enemies  nor  mine  would  run  the 
risk  of  murdering  us  in  open  day.  But  suppose  they 
could  kill  us  by  simply  wishing  it?  I  should  drop 
dead  in  my  tracks  before  your  eyes,  and  you,  quiet 
and  unknown  as  you  are,  would  fall  a  corpse  in  Main 
Street  before  you  reached  home." 

He  owned  that  this  horrible  thought  had  been  put 
into  his  mind  by  some  writer  whom  he  had  that  day 
been  reading.  But  it  was  precisely  such  ideas  that 
fastened  themselves  in  his  memory.  He  brooded  over 
them  until  they  became  a  part  of  his  very  being.  No 
wonder  he  was  morbid! 

Here  I  must  stop,  for  I  have  told  all,  or  nearly  all  I 
know  about  this  remarkable  man.     The  narrative  has 

212 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

spun  out  under  my  hand  to  a  length  very  much  greater 
than  I  intended  when  I  began  to  write.  But  I  have 
willingly  allowed  myfelf  to  go  on,  knowing  as  I  do  that 
every  word  about  John  M.  Daniel  will  be  read  with 
interest  in  every  Southern  State.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  at  some  day  those  who  were  his  intimate  friends 
will  do  perfectly  what  I  have  done  most  imperfectly, 
for  lack  of  knowledge  on  the  one  hand,  and  because  of 
countless  interruptions  on  the  other.  Written  piece- 
meal, this  sketch  claims  no  other  merit  than  a  faithful 
account  of  my  acquaintance  with  its  subject,  and  an 
estimate,  which  I  deem  to  be  just,  of  his  character.  I 
trust  it  will  be  viewed  in  this  light,  and  that  it  may  not 
provoke  one  harsh  criticism.  If  Messrs.  P.  H.  Aylett 
and  T.  H.  Wynne,  or  Doctors  Rawlings  and  Petticolas, 
could  be  induced  to  attempt  what  I  have  undertaken, 
then  the  Southern  public  would  have  what  so  many 
desire  to  see,  a  full-length  portraiture  of  one  of  the 
most  gifted  and  brilliant  men  ever  born  on  Southern 
soil. 

A  few  words  about  his  death,  and  I  have  done. 
Late  in  January,  1865,  he  was  attacked  the  second 
time  with  pneumonia.  Treated  promptly  by  skilful 
physicians,  his  disease  abated;  he  rallied,  and  was 
able  to  sit  up  and  attend  somewhat  to  his  duties.  His 
recovery  was  deemed  certain.  But,  as  the  event 
proved,  tubercles  were  developed  both  in  the  lungs  and 
in  the  mesenteric  glands.  The  patient  gradually  grew 
worse,  and  was  at  length  compelled  to  return  to  his 
bed.  The  slow  weeks  of  winter  wore  themselves  away. 
How  they  passed,  I  cannot  tell,  for,  although  I  made 

213 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

frequent  calls  at  the  house  on  Broad  Street,  I  was 
always  refused  admittance.  The  latch-key  remained 
unused  in  my  pocket.  Only  his  physicians  and  most 
intimate  friends  were  admitted  to  the  sick  man's 
chamber.  On  one  occasion,  as  I  was  told  by  a  Ken- 
tucky member  of  the  Confederate  Congress,  he  sent 
for  the  Hon.  R.  M.  T.  Hunter,  and  one  or  two  other 
prominent  politicians,  and  told  them  his  candid  opinion 
— that  the  Cause  was  hopeless,  and  that  the  only  course 
left  to  us  was  "reconstruction  on  the  best  terms  we 
could  make." 

So  long  as  his  strength  permitted  him  to  take  an 
interest  in  any  earthly  thing,  he  had  the  welfare  of  the 
Southern  people  at  heart,  and  his  latest  effort  seems 
to  have  been  to  secure  by  negotiation  what  he  was 
persuaded  arms  could  not  achieve.  Those  who  out- 
lived him  can  decide  for  themselves  whether  the  con- 
queror would  have  kept  the  faith  which  might  have 
been  plighted  at  Fortress  Monroe  better  than  that 
which  was  so  solemnly  pledged  at  Appomattox  Court 
House. 

As  spring  approached,  his  symptoms  became  alarm- 
ing. Ere  long,  it  was  whispered  on  the  streets  that  his 
situation  was  critical.  Relatives  and  friends  proffered 
every  assistance.  They  were  politely  but  firmly  told 
that  assistance  was  not  needed.  He  was  not  a  man  to 
be  "sat  up  with."  His  only  attendant  was  a  female 
servant.  Once  or  twice,  perhaps  oftener,  he  requested 
his  faithful  manager,  Walker,  to  sleep  in  an  adjoining 
room;  but  Walker  was  hardly  warm  in  his  bed  before 
he  was  aroused  by  a  message  to  the  effect  that  Mr. 

214 


john  m.  daniel's  latch-key 

Daniel  wished  to  see  him.  Hurrying  on  his  clothes, 
he  would  go  at  once  to  the  dying  man's  bed,  where,  in 
a  feeble  voice,  this  strange  announcement  would  be 
made  to  him: 

"Walker,  you  must  really  pardon  me,  but  the  truth 
is,  that  the  very  fact  of  your  being  in  the  house  makes 
me  so  nervous  that  I  cannot  rest.     Please  go  home." 

Home  the  manager  of  the  Examiner  would  go, 
sometimes  long  after  midnight,  leaving  the  sufferer  to 
his  own  thoughts.  What  those  were,  no  man  will  ever 
tell,  for  none  ever  knew.  He  must  have  known  that 
his  days  were  numbered,  for  when  he  received  a  bou- 
quet of  the  earliest  spring  flowers,  sent  him  by  the 
daughter  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Wynne,  he  took  it  in  his 
wasted  hand,  returned  his  thanks  for  the  gift,  and  then 
laid  it  aside,  murmuring  "too  late  now;  too  late!" 

The  editorial  conduct  of  the  Examiner  had  been  in 
the  exclusive  charge  of  John  Mitchell  for  many  weeks. 
Daniel  no  longer  concerned  himself  about  it.  His  will 
was  made;  he  was  ready  to  depart.  His  physicians 
knew  he  could  not  live,  but  they  expected  him  to  linger 
ten  days  or  a  fortnight  longer.  Plied  with  stimulants, 
he  might  bear  up  yet  a  good  while.  But  the  last  hour 
was  at  hand.  The  exact  circumstances  of  his  death, 
as  told  to  me,  are  these.  On  making  his  usual  morning 
call,  Dr.  Rawlings  found  his  friend's  pulse  sinking 
rapidly.  No  stimulant  being  at  hand,  the  supply  in 
the  house  having  been  exhausted,  he  dispatched  a 
servant  in  all  haste  to  get  a  bottle  of  French  brandy. 
It  was  quickly  brought.  When  it  came,  he  proceeded 
forthwith  to  make  a  strong  toddy.     The  patient  was 

215 


john  m.  Daniel's  latch-key 

then  lying  close  to  the  outer  edge  of  the  bed.  Dr. 
Rawlings  stood  some  distance  off,  near  the  window, 
stirring  the  toddy.  Suddenly  his  attention  was  aroused 
by  a  noise  behind  him.  Looking  quickly  in  that  direc- 
tion, he  saw  that  the  patient  had,  by  a  strong  effort, 
turned  himself  over  and  lay  on  his  back  in  the  middle 
of  the  bed,  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  arms  folded  on 
his  breast.  Thinking  that  he  was  praying,  he  would 
not  disturb  him,  but  continued  to  stir  the  toddy  a  few 
minutes  longer,  so  as  to  give  him  time  to  finish  his 
prayer.  A  sufficient  time  having  elapsed  and  the  need 
of  a  stimulant  being  urgent,  the  doctor  went  to  the 
bedside  and  leaned  over. 

John  M.  Daniel  was  not  in  this  world! 


216 


VIII 
THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR 

[The  following  sketch  was  written  and  published  some  time  in 
the  fifties,  when  there  may  have  been  more  to  excuse  its  extrava- 
gancies than  now.  The  satire  amused  the  public,  and  no  por- 
tion of  it  more  than  the  gentlemen  who  were  the  object  of  it.] 

THE  Virginia  Editor  is  a  young,  unmarried,  intem- 
perate, pugnacious,  gambling  gentleman.  Be- 
tween drink  and  dueling-pistols  he  is  generally  escorted 
to  a  premature  grave.  If  he  so  far  withstands  the 
ravages  of  brandy  and  gunpowder  as  to  reach  the 
period  of  gray  hairs  and  cautiousness,  he  is  deposed  to 
make  room  for  a  youth  who  hates  his  life  with  an  utter 
hatred,  and  who  can't  keep  drunk  more  than  a  week 
at  a  time. 

Deposed,  he  becomes  a  literary  ostrich,  and  may  be 
seen,  with  swollen  red  nose  and  diminished,  calf  less 
shanks,  migrating  from  court-house  to  court-house, 
laying  a  newspaper  egg,  which  he  leaves  to  be  hatched 
into  life  and  permanence  by  the  pecuniary  warmth  of 
the  party  to  whom  he  sells  out  at  a  small  advance.  Or 
he  gets  the  lofty  position  of  clerk  in  Washington. 
Should  he,  by  rare  good  luck  and  the  miraculous  inter- 
position of  Providence,  have  saved  any  money,  he 
buys  a  property  in  the  country,  retires  to  it,  debauches 

217 


THE   VIRGINIA   EDITOR 

himself  with  miscellaneous  literature,  lounges  much 
and  does  a  great  deal  of  nothing  at  all.  Should  he  get 
married,  he  sinks  into  an  obscure  and  decent  citizen, 
and  looks  back  upon  his  early  career  as  a  horrid  dream. 

Previous  to  his  death,  the  Virginia  editor  makes  the 
most  of  the  short  time  allotted  to  him  on  earth  by  liv- 
ing at  a  suicidal  velocity.  To  test  the  strength  of  his 
constitution,  by  subjecting  it  to  the  influence  of  the 
most  destructive  habits  and  agencies,  appears  to  be 
his  sole  pleasure  and  aim.  He  is  determined  not  to 
live  longer  than  he  can  possibly  help.  A  quiet  death 
at  a  ripe  old  age  he  regards  as  a  disgrace. 

His  first  waking  moments  in  the  morning  are  satu- 
rated with  a  number  of  powerful  cocktails,  to  cure  a 
headache,  "brought  over,"  as  an  accountant  would 
say,  from  the  previous  midnight.  Cocktailed  past  the 
point  of  nervousness  and  remorse,  he  dresses  himself 
and  wends  his  way  to  a  barber  shop  to  get  shaved,  if 
he  shaves  at  all.  Not  unfrequently  he  has  himself 
shaved  in  bed.  Breakfast  succeeds,  and  then,  with  a 
cigar  in  his  mouth,  he  enters  his  sanctum  and  goes  to 
work;  which  work  consists  in  hunting  for  insults  in 
his  exchanges,  and  in  laying  the  foundation,  by  means 
of  a  scathing  article,  of  a  future  duel.  While  em- 
ployed upon  his  leading  article  he  suffers  no  interrup- 
tion, except  from  the  gentleman  who  brings  a  note 
from  another  gentleman,  whom  he  (the  editor)  grossly 
insulted  at  an  oyster  supper  the  night  before.  Having 
no  earthly  recollection  of  any  such  occurrence,  the 
editor  feels  no  hesitation  (unless  he  happens  to  be  un- 
usually bilious,  or  has  no  "affair"  upon  his  hands), 

218 


THE   VIRGINIA   EDITOR 

in  saying  that  he  "fully  and  frankly  withdraws  any 
and  every  expression  reflecting  upon  the  character  of 
the  gentleman,  as  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor." 

His  editorial  labors  vary  from  five  minutes  to  two 
hours  and  a  half  in  duration.  If  he  feels  very  badly 
he  won't  write  at  all,  but  goes  armed  with  a  stick  to  a 
neighboring  law  office,  and  threatens  the  occupant  with 
a  caning  unless  he  has  a  spicy  article  in  the  composi- 
tor's hands  by  such  an  hour.  The  unhappy  barrister 
complies,  and  spices  the  editor  into  a  scrape,  for  which 
the  editor  is  unaffectedly  thankful,  swearing  he  would 
die  without  excitement. 

Before  leaving  his  sanctum  he  answers  a  couple  of 
letters  which  arrived  by  the  last  mail.     He  engages  to 

meet  "the  gallant  Democracy  of district,"  and  to 

address  them  on  "August  court-day."  He  assures  a 
"constant  reader"  that  "the  glorious  cause  is  prosper- 
ing, the  skies  brightening";  and  suggests,  as  the  best 
means  of  putting  the  issue  of  the  canvass — "the  most 
momentous  canvass  that  ever  occurred  in  the  history 
of  the  Republic" — beyond  a  doubt,  that  the  "constant 
reader"  shall  send  in  ten  new  subscribers  to  the  Keepa 
Pitchinin.  He  then  huddles  a  shirt,  a  case  of  dueling 
pistols,  and  a  bottle  of  "Otard"  into  a  small  trunk, 
and  goes  to  the  telegraph  office  to  notify  a  brother 
editor  that  he  will  be  in  Washington  to-morrow  night, 
waiting  for  him  at  the  National  Hotel.  His  mind  be- 
ing thus  relieved  of  business,  he  has  nothing  to  do  but 
wander  off  to  his  hotel,  to  look  at  the  register  and  see 
if  anybody  has  come.  Meets  there  another  editor — a 
red-headed  provincial  fresh  from  the  mountains,  and 

219 


THE   VIRGINIA   EDITOR 

already  heavily  laden  with  "rifle  whiskey" — with  whom 
he  proceeds,  without  delay,  to  drink  juleps  and  talk 
politics  until  dinner-time. 

After  dinner  he  borrows  twice  as  much  money  as 
will  take  him  to  Washington  and  back,  reserving  the 
surplus  to  bet  that  night  at  the  faro-bank. 

In  his  personal  appearance,  the  Virginia  editor  vi- 
brates between  positive  gentility  and  absolute  shab- 
biness,  and  this  irrespective  of  his  condition  as  to 
"funds."  At  times  he  is  smooth  and  clean  of  face, 
immaculate  in  shirt,  perfect  of  boot  and  hat;  at  others 
he  is  great  in  beard  and  dirt,  resembling  an  uncleansed 
pressman,  or  a  pirate  who  has  cruised  for  years  upon 
an  ocean  of  ink.  He  rarely  buys  clothes  until  he  is  in 
immediate  need  of  them;  and,  inasmuch  as  he  lives 
all  over  the  State,  is  quite  as  apt  to  have  on  somebody 
else's  clothes  as  his  own.  He  despises  a  fashionable, 
dandified  man  as  he  does  a  man  who  drinks  weak 
drinks.  He  vindicates  his  Democracy,  even  in  his 
liquor;  believes  in  good  old  brandy  or  whiskey,  calls 
them  "strict  construction  drinks,"  while  malt  liquors 
he  stigmatizes  as  "compromise  drinks,"  and  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  them,  except  to  "taper  off"  on. 

There  is  nothing  in  his  form  or  features  to  distin- 
guish him  from  other  men.  A  physiognomist  might, 
perhaps,  detect  in  his  face  a  bloody  good-nature — an 
amiability  easily  kindled  into  anger — as  if  the  fierce 
animal  instincts  of  the  man  were  but  imperfectly  sub- 
dued by  the  pressure  of  social  refinements. 

His  negligence  in  dress  is  not  greater  than  his  care- 
lessness with  regard  to  another  comfort  which  the  ma- 

220 


THE   VIRGINIA   EDITOR 

jority  of  mankind  deem  essential  to  happiness.  He 
will  live  upon  the  best  of  food,  will  drink  the  best 
liquors,  and  smoke  the  finest  cigars,  but  is  utterly 
indifferent  as  to  where  or  how  he  sleeps,  provided  he 
has  a  bed-fellow;  for  he  is  greatly  social,  and  cannot 
bear  ever  to  be  alone.  No  respectable  young  man 
living  in  the  same  city  is  secure  against  an  invasion  of 
the  editor  at  the  most  inopportune  hours  of  the  night. 
How  many  sweet  dreams  have  been  rudely  broken  by 
his  assaults  upon  the  front-door,  or  his  noisy  escalade 
of  the  back-window,  it  would  be  impossible  to  tell. 

He  has  a  room  of  his  own,  originally  furnished  with 
some  taste  and  care,  but  has  a  mortal  antipathy  to 
sleeping  in  it.  Nor  is  this  aversion  to  be  wondered 
at.  Through  a  puddle  of  newspapers,  congressional 
speeches,  tobacco  juice,  cigar  stumps,  broken  spit- 
boxes,  and  pipestems,  he  wades  to  a  bed  whose  sheets 
bade  adieu  to  the  washerwoman  at  a  period  too  re- 
mote to  be  recalled,  and  whose  counterpane  secretes 
its  primitive  tints  under  a  sweet  and  greasy  scum  of 
spermaceti  and  spilled  brandy  toddies.  A  candle- 
stand  is  drawn  conveniently  near  the  yellow  pillow,  and 
on  it  lie,  disorderly,  a  candle  burned  to  the  socket,  a 
fragmentary  volume  of  Byron,  a  plug  of  tobacco,  a  cork 
(fellow  to  others  on  the  floor),  an  inkstand  without 
any  ink  in  it,  and  a  foolscap  scrap  of  unfinished  edi- 
torial. Upon  the  window-sill,  near  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
stands  marshaled  a  platoon  of  various-sized  bottles, 
from  the  grenadier  champagne  to  the  squatty  porter 
and  the  slab-sided  tickler.  In  the  little  wardrobe  are 
no  clothes,  except  a  skeleton  waistcoat  gibbeted  upon 

221 


THE   VIRGINIA  EDITOR 

a  broken  hook,  but  a  number  of  empty  cigar-boxes,  a 
bowie-knife  and  a  revolver.  In  the  waistcoat  pocket 
may  be  found  a  free  railroad  ticket,  which  ticket  he 
never  presents,  for  the  conductors  are  much  better  ac- 
quainted with  him  than  with  the  schedule.  The  odor 
of  this  apartment  is  not  inviting.  The  door  is  always 
open,  night  and  day,  and  it  is  the  common  dormitory 
of  all  belated  roysterers.  Any  one  may  sleep  here 
who  chooses. 

Notwithstanding  his  habits,  the  editor  obtains  a  pop- 
ularity wholly  disproportioned,  one  would  say,  to  his 
merits.  That  he  should  achieve  notoriety  is  no  matter 
of  surprise,  when  every  number  of  every  paper  issued 
in  the  State  contains  the  name  of  Derringer  Thunder- 
gust,  or  William  Jeems  Rawhead,  as  principal,  second, 
or  adjustant  of  some  personal  difficulty;  but  notoriety 
is  one  thing  and  popularity  another  and  very  different 
thing. 

Habits  which  would  outlaw  any  other  man  enable 
him  to  ride  rough-shod  over  the  inviolable  law  of  cus- 
tom. Conduct  which  would  damn  a  man  in  business 
endears  him  to  men  in  whose  creed  "strict  business 
habits"  rank  next  to,  if  they  do  not  take  precedence 
of,  godliness.  Grave  men — the  slaves  of  routine  and 
propriety — appear  to  take  the  same  delight  in  witness- 
ing his  unbridled  eccentricities  that  inspired  the  poet 
Job  when  contemplating  the  gambols  of  the  wild  ass. 
There  is  an  airy  bravado  in  his  outrages,  a  gay  candor 
and  naturalness  in  his  excesses,  which  extract  all  their 
sting.  As  soon  quarrel  with  the  habits  of  a  strange 
bird  as  with  those  of  a  being  who  is  not  a  man,  but  an 

222 


THE   VIRGINIA  EDITOR 

editor,  and  to  whom  no  gauge  of  human  morals  is  in 
any  particular  applicable. 

His  abhorrence  of  the  vice  of  solitary  drinking  has 
a  good  deal  to  do  with  this  popularity.  Scarcely  a 
respectable  citizen  can  be  found  in  the  commonwealth 
with  whom  he  has  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  hob- 
nobbed in  a  friendly  manner.  Rather  than  drink  alone 
he  will  drink  with  a  negro,  provided  the  negro  is  at  all 
genteel,  and  has  a  gentleman  for  his  master.  His 
Ethiopian  popularity  is  immense.  It  could  hardly  be 
otherwise  when,  from  the  White  Sulphur  Springs  to  the 
City  of  Norfolk,  he  has  repeatedly  and  extravagantly 
feed  everything  answering  to  the  name  of  "waiter." 

The  Virginia  editor  is  not  a  pious,  nor,  strictly  speak- 
ing, a  gallant  man.  Women,  children,  and  preachers 
he  classes  under  the  common  head  of  "non-combat- 
ants," and  views  them  pretty  much  in  the  light  in 
which  he  regards  flies — as  species  of  not  very  harmful, 
somewhat  abundant  insects,  perhaps  useful,  but  whose 
uses  are  not  yet  well  understood.  Still,  he  makes  it  a 
point  of  honor  to  place  implicit  faith  in  the  truth  of 
the  Christian  religion  and  the  virtue  of  women;  and 
while  he  regards  the  softer  sex  as,  at  best,  beautiful 
toys,  they  are  glass  toys,  and  he  treads  respectfully  and 
gingerly  among  the  frail  vessels.  He  clings  with  sec- 
tarian tenacity  to  the  belief  in  future  rewards  and  pun- 
ishments; he  is  too  brave  and  resentful  a  man  to  think 
otherwise.  A  disbelief  in  hell  he  denounces  as  the 
"poltroonery  of  infidelity,"  nor  can  any  casuistry  con- 
vince him  that  a  man  is  not  as  responsible  for  his  faith 
as  he  is  for  his  actions. 

223 


THE   VIRGINIA   EDITOR 

He  loves  to  talk,  and  his  great  theme,  after  politics, 
is  himself.  In  himself  he  has  the  most  unbounded 
confidence — a  confidence  which,  in  the  most  trying 
emergencies,  scarcely  ever  deserts  him.  Through  diffi- 
culties that  would  appal  and  crush  ordinary  men,  he 
moves  with  the  smiling  abandon  of  a  knight-errant 
pricking  onward  to  meet  a  dragon,  gorgon,  or  chimera 
dire.  Only  in  moments  of  extreme  nervous  depression 
will  he  admit  himself  not  competent  to  the  discharge 
of  the  most  arduous  and  varied  duties  of  life,  and  espe- 
cially of  those  duties  for  which  he  is  evidently  unfitted. 
He  looks  upon  himself  as  pre-eminently  a  man  of  busi- 
ness— a  practical  man.  Rothschild  was  not  his  equal 
in  financiering  ability;  Napoleon  nor  Hampden  could 
have  wearied  him  in  work;  Halifax  was  not  his  superior 
in  political  sagacity.  Name  any  man  who  has  suc- 
ceeded or  failed  in  any  undertaking,  he  will  instantly 
unfold  to  you  the  secret  of  his  success,  or  the  over- 
sight which  led  to  his  downfall. 

"But  for  cards  and  liquor,"  himself  would  have 
excelled  any  man  of  his  acquaintance;  as  it  is,  see 
how  well  he  gets  along  in  the  world.  In  truth,  his 
mind  is  strictly  of  the  nil  admirari  order;  he  wor- 
ships no  man;  and  his  regard  for  himself  is  only  a 
reluctant  indulgence  accorded  not  to  what  he  is,  but 
to  what  he  ought  to  be,  and  would  be,  "but  for  cards 
and  liquor." 

For  this  remarkable  self-confidence  he  is  indebted 
partly  to  a  nature  eminently  high-spirited,  and  partly 
to  his  position.  Like  the  driver  of  a  locomotive,  he 
wields  a  power  infinitely  greater  than  his  own.     He 

224 


THE   VIRGINIA   EDITOR 

handles  the  lever  that  unlooses  the  throttle-valve  of 
the  mightiest  engine  on  earth,  and  it  is  but  natural 
that  he  should  confound  derived  with  individual 
power.  Disconnect  him  from  his  engine,  let  him  con- 
duct a  business,  other  than  his  own,  upon  the  same 
loose  principles,  he  would  soon  discover  his  error. 
But  then  he  would  lose  one  of  his  most  delightful 
traits. 

The  Virginia  editor  is  not  a  profoundly  learned  man; 
he  is  not  even  a  smatterer,  in  the  sense,  at  least,  in 
which  that  equivocal  compliment  was  paid  to  Milton. 
His  specialty  is  politics;  and  his  tastes  not  less  than  his 
occupation  conspire  to  prevent  his  acquiring  any  other 
knowledge.  Of  Latin  he  remembers  a  few  terms,  such 
as  ex  post  facto  and  ex  parte,  which  he  picked  up 
while  drifting,  for  a  few  weeks,  through  a  law  office. 
Of  Greek  he  retains  nearly  the  whole  alphabet,  being 
only  a  little  uncertain  as  to  the  relative  shapes  of  Zeta 
and  Xi,  and  confusing  Phi  with  Psi.  His  stock  of 
poetry  consists  of  a  few  scraps  of  Hudibras,  Byron,  and 
Peter  Pindar;  he  has,  besides,  a  professional  pride  and 
tenderness  for  the  quatrain  commencing: 

"Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  will  rise  again!" 

It  would  be  impossible  to  restrain  him  from  quoting 
this  occasionally,  and,  if  it  were  possible,  it  would  be 
cruel. 

His  historical  information  does  not  extend  quite  to 
the  times  of  the  Achaean  League  and  the  Amphictyonic 
Council,  but  dates  rather  from  the  Resolutions  of  '98. 
With  the  workings  of  the  American  government,  from 

225 


THE   VIRGINIA   EDITOR 

its  inception  down  to  the  present  time;  with  the  char- 
acter, and,  to  an  extent,  with  the  writings  of  the  great 
men  who  took  prominent  part  in  its  formation;  with 
the  policy  of  the  party  leaders;  with  the  politicians, 
great  and  small,  of  his  own  times,  and  with  their  tac- 
tics, he  is  intimately  familiar.  In  fact,  his  attainments 
may  be  summed  up  in  the  word  "politics";  for  while 
he  does  not  underrate  those  who  understand  and  take 
an  interest  in  Belles  Lettres  and  the  Arts  and  Sciences, 
he  frankly  confesses  that  he  knows  and  cares  nothing 
about  them  himself.  So  fitted  is  he  for  partisan  jour- 
nalism, and  so  wedded  to  it,  that  it  is  to  be  hoped  the 
divine  economy  has  set  apart  some  waste  democratic 
star,  some  uncleared  portion  of  the  celestial  public 
domain,  some  half-settled  nebulous  Kansas  as  a  news- 
paper heaven  for  him  and  his  fellows.  Elsewhere  no 
conceivable  use  could  be  found  for  them. 

His  style  in  writing  varies  from  the  plainest  Anglo- 
Saxon  to  the  most  gorgeous  highfalutin.  In  general, 
however,  he  makes  use  of  ordinary  English,  and  cares 
little  or  nothing  about  nicety  and  finish.  He  is  better 
at  repartee  than  at  argument,  but  prefers  hard  talk  to 
the  most  polished  wit.  His  humor  is  peculiar,  and 
considerably  wider  than  it  is  subtle. 

It  has  been  said  by  some  that  the  Virginia  editor  is 
chosen  rather  for  the  stoutness  of  his  heart  than  for 
the  brilliancy  of  his  intellect,  and,  to  be  honest,  there 
is  some  truth  in  the  allegation.  A  newspaper,  to  be 
successful  in  the  Old  Dominion,  must  not  be  defective 
in  what  they  call  chivalry;  and  a  long-established 
paper,  having  the  prestige  of  high-toned  valor,  would 

226 


THE   VIRGINIA   EDITOR 

hardly  employ  a  ready-writing  craven  in  preference  to 
a  brave  gentleman  less  facile  with  the  pen.  But  the 
requirements  of  the  public  in  this  regard,  and  the 
usages  of  the  papers,  have  been  a  thought  exagger- 
ated. 

It  is  not  true,  for  example,  that  the  man-of-all-work, 
the  "  Caesar "  of  the  office,  who  is  employed  to  sweep 
out  the  old  papers  and  trash  in  the  morning,  receives 
an  additional  compensation  for  sweeping  in  the  dead 
editors  lying  about  the  door,  who  have  been  killed  at 
various  places  during  the  night  and  brought  there,  as 
to  a  Morgue,  for  recognition  and  distribution.  Neither 
is  it  true  that  a  paper,  in  order  to  keep  up  its  circula- 
tion, must  have  at  least  one  editor  killed  a  day,  and 
that  papers  having  secured  a  good  editor,  one  whom 
they  are  unwilling  to  lose,  are  in  the  habit  of  imposing 
upon  the  public  by  buying  up  worthless  wretches  to 
assassinate  in  place  of  him.  Equally  unfounded  is  the 
report  that  papers  impoverished  and  doing  a  small 
business  are  forced  to  practice  the  contemptible  fraud 
of  substituting  wooden  dummies,  manikins,  or  lay 
figures  in  place  of  bona  fide  corpses.  These  reports 
have  reference,  doubtless,  to  States  farther  south  than 
Virginia. 

A  propensity  for  gaming  is  a  part  of  the  editor's 
constitution — an  hereditary  taint,  for  which  he  is  no 
more  responsible  than  for  the  age  of  his  grandfather, 
and  which  he  could  as  easily  get  rid  of  as  remove  the 
shape  of  his  legs.  The  affliction  being  eminently  gen- 
teel, he  not  only  bears  up  under  it  with  manly  forti- 
tude, but  cherishes  it  with  much  regard.     He  is  not 

227 


THE   VIRGINIA   EDITOR 

much  of  a  hand  at  "short  cards."  His  delight  is  to  be 
seated  over  against  a  grim,  imperturbable  faro-dealer — 
to  have  bets  of  "red  checks"  all  over  the  table — half 
a  dozen  "piddlers"  of  "white  chips"  to  be  leaning 
over  his  shoulder  and  admiring  his  nerve — a  negro  to 
be  patiently  awaiting  the  end  of  the  deal  to  hand  him 
a  brandy  toddy  on  a  silver  waiter — for  the  game  to  be 
stoutly  contested,  and  himself  to  "come  out  right 
smartly  winner."  He  has  no  great  faith  in  "cases," 
but  believes  in  betting  on  three  cards  at  a  time,  and 
has  a  special  hankering  for  "the  pot." 

After  all,  and  in  spite  of  his  many  faults,  the  Vir- 
ginia editor  is  a  gentleman.  He  comes  of  a  good 
stock,  and,  however  wild  he  may  be,  never  disgraces 
it  by  a  low  or  mean  action.  His  vices  are  not  those  of 
a  groveling  spirit.  If  his  temper  is  hot,  .it  is  not  im- 
placable; if  his  resentment  is  quick,  it  never  seeks  an 
underhanded  revenge.  If  he'  prefers  a  clean  bullet- 
hole  to  a  fisticuffish  bruising  or  mangling  with  a  blud- 
geon, that  is  his  own  concern.  If  he  is  a  sturdy  parti- 
san, he  is  above  the  venality  and  the  trimming  which 
disgrace  the  journalism  of  States  nearer  the  pole  than 
his  own.  If  he  drinks  too  much,  it  is  because  the 
liquor  he  uses  is  of  the  best  quality.  If  he  gambles,  it 
is  because  he  can't  help  it.  If  he  lives  something  be- 
yond his  income,  he  is  doing  no  more  than  all  enlight- 
ened nations  and  the  majority  of  great  men  have  done 
and  continue  to  do.  His  tastes  are  lavish.  An  im- 
perial gallon  cannot  be  contained  in  a  quart  pot.  And 
what  political  fabric  was  ever  reared  or  maintained  in 
its  integrity  without  the  aid  of  an  occasional  loan  ?    If 

228 


THE   VIRGINIA   EDITOR 

he  is  not  a  very  good  citizen,  it  is  because  he  wants  to 
be  a  better  editor. 

Finally,  half  an  ounce  of  lead  is  "honorably  and 
satisfactorily  adjusted"  in  his  heart  or  brain,  and  the 
Virginia  editor  dies,  to  the  great  joy  of  himself  and 
to  the  intense  grief  of  his  party — the  faro-dealers,  the 
barkeepers,  and  of  everybody  who  is  entitled  to  an 
unexpected  fifty  cents  simply  because  he  is  a  negro 
and  can  run  an  errand.  The  no  longer  belligerent 
remains  are  attended  to  the  tomb  by  an  immense  con- 
course of  citizens  of  all  parties,  and  the  epitaph,  stale 
but  true,  is,  that  "the  community  could  have  better 
spared  a  better  man." 


229 


IX 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  TRAVEL  IN  THE  OLD  DAYS  ON  THE 
JAMES    RIVER    AND    KANAWHA   CANAL 


A  MONG  my  earliest  recollections  is  a  trip  from 
-*■  *■  Cumberland  County  to  Lynchburg,  in  1835,  or 
thereabouts.  As  the  stage  approached  Glover's  tavern 
in  Appomattox  County,  sounds  as  of  a  cannonade 
aroused  my  childish  curiosity  to  a  high  pitch.  I  had 
been  reading  Parley's  History  of  America,  and  this 
must  be  the  noise  of  actual  battle.  Yes;  the  war 
against  the  hateful  Britishers  must  have  broken  out 
again.  Would  the  stage  carry  us  within  range  of  the 
cannon  balls  ?  Yes,  and  presently  the  red-coats  would 
come  swarming  out  of  the  woods.  And — and — Gen- 
eral Washington  was  dead;  I  was  certain  of  that;  what 
would  become  of  us?  I  was  terribly  excited,  but 
afraid  to  ask  questions.  Perhaps  I  was  scared.  Would 
they  kill  an  unarmed  boy,  sitting  peacably  in  a  stage 
coach?  Of  course  they  would;  Britishers  will  do 
anything!  Then  they  will  have  to  shoot  a  couple  of 
men  first — and  I  squeezed  still  closer  between  them. 

My  relief  and  my  disappointment  were  equally 
great,  when  a  casual  remark  unfolded  the  fact  that  the 

230 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

noise  which  so  excited  me  was  only  the  "blasting  of 
rock  on  the  Jeems  and  Kanawha  Canell."  What  was 
"blasting  of  rock?" 

What  was  a  "canell?"  and,  above  all,  what  manner 
of  thing  was  a  "Jeems  and  Kanawha  Canell?"  Was 
it  alive? 

I  think  it  was;  more  alive  than  it  has  ever  been 
since,  except  for  the  first  few  years  after  it  was  opened. 

Those  were  the  "good  old  days"  of  batteaux — 
picturesque  craft  that  charmed  my  young  eyes  more 
than  all  the  gondolas  of  Venice  would  do  now.  True, 
they  consumed  a  week  in  getting  from  Lynchburg  to 
Richmond,  and  ten  days  in  returning  against  the 
stream,  but  what  of  that?  Time  was  abundant  in 
those  days.  It  was  made  for  slaves,  and  we  had  the 
slaves.  A  batteau  on  the  water  was  more  than  a 
match  for  the  best  four  or  six  horse  bell  team  that 
ever  rolled  over  the  red  clay  of  Bedford,  brindle  dog 
and  tar-bucket  included. 

Fleets  of  these  batteaux  used  to  be  moored  on  the 
river  bank  near  where  the  depot  of  the  Virginia  and 
Tennessee  Railroad  now  stands;  and  many  years  after 
the  "Jeems  and  Kanawha"  was  finished,  one  of  them 
used  to  haunt  the  mouth  of  Blackwater  Creek  above 
the  toll-bridge,  a  relic  of  departed  glory.  For  if  ever 
man  gloried  in  his  calling — the  negro  batteauman  was 
that  man.  His  was  a  hardy  calling,  demanding  skill, 
courage  and  strength  in  a  high  degree.  I  can  see  him 
now  striding  the  plank  that  ran  along  the  gunwale  to 
afford  him  footing,  his  long  iron-shod  pole  trailing  in 
the  water  behind  him.     Now  he  turns,  and  after  one  or 

231 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

two  ineffectual  efforts  to  get  his  pole  fixed  in  the  rocky 
bottom  of  the  river,  secures  his  purchase,  adjusts  the 
upper  part  of  the  pole  to  the  pad  at  his  shoulder,  bends 
to  his  task,  and  the  long,  but  not  ungraceful  bark 
mounts  the  rapids  like  a  seabird  breasting  the  storm. 
His  companion  on  the  other  side  plies  the  pole  with 
equal  ardor,  and  between  the  two  the  boat  bravely 
surmounts  every  obstacle,  be  it  rocks,  rapids,  quick- 
sands, hammocks,  what  not.  A  third  negro  at  the 
stern  held  the  mighty  oar  that  served  as  a  rudder.  A 
stalwart,  jolly,  courageous  set  they  were,  plying  the 
pole  all  day,  hauling  in  to  shore  at  night  under  the 
friendly  shade  of  a  mighty  sycamore,  to  rest,  to  eat,  to 
play  the  banjo,  and  to  snatch  a  few  hours  of  profound, 
blissful  sleep. 

The  up-cargo,  consisting  of  sacks  of  salt,  bags  of 
coffee,  barrels  of  sugar,  molasses  and  whiskey,  af- 
forded good  pickings.  These  sturdy  fellows  lived  well, 
I  promise  you,  and  if  they  stole  a  little,  why,  what  was 
their  petty  thieving  compared  to  the  enormous  pillage 
of  the  modern  sugar  refiner  and  the  crooked-whiskey 
distiller?  They  lived  well.  Their  cook's  galley  was 
a  little  dirt  thrown  between  the  ribs  of  the  boat  at  the 
stern,  with  an  awning  on  occasion  to  keep  off  the  rain, 
and  what  they  didn't  eat  wasn't  worth  eating.  Fish 
of  the  very  best,  both  salt  and  fresh,  chickens,  eggs, 
milk  and  the  invincible,  never-satisfying  ash-cake  and 
fried  bacon.  I  see  the  frying-pan,  I  smell  the  meat, 
the  fish,  the  Rio  coffee! — I  want  the  batteau  back 
again,  aye!. and  the  brave,  light-hearted  slave  to  boot. 
What  did  he  know  about  the  State  debt?    There  was 

232 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

no  State  debt  to  speak  of.  Greenbacks?  Bless,  you! 
the  Farmers  Bank  of  Virginia  was  living  and  breathing, 
and  its  money  was  good  enough  for  a  king.  Re- 
adjustment, funding  bill,  tax-receivable  coupons — 
where  were  all  these  worries  then  ?  I  think  if  we  had 
known  they  were  coming,  we  would  have  stuck  to  the 
batteaux  and  never  dammed  the  river.  Why,  shad 
used  to  run  to  Lynchburg!  The  world  was  merry, 
buttermilk  was  abundant;  Lynchburg  a  lad,  Rich- 
mond a  mere  youth,  and  the  great  "Jeems  and  Kana- 
wha canell"  was  going  to — oh!  it  was  going  to  do 
everything. 

This  was  forty  years  ago  and  more,  mark  you. 

In  1838,  I  made  my  first  trip  to  Richmond.  What 
visions  of  grandeur  filled  my  youthful  imagination! 
That  eventually  I  should  get  to  be  a  man  seemed 
probable,  but  that  I  should  ever  be  big  enough  to  live, 
actually  live,  in  the  vast  metropolis,  was  beyond  my 
dreams.  For  I  believed  fully  that  men  were  propor- 
tioned to  the  size  of  the  cities  they  lived  in.  I  had  seen 
a  man  named  Hatcher  from  Cartersville,  who  was  near 
about  the  size  of  the  average  man  in  Lynchburg,  but 
as  I  had  never  seen  Cartersville,  I  concluded,  nat- 
urally enough,  that  Cartersville  must  be  equal  in  pop- 
ulation. Which  may  be  the  fact,  for  I  have  never  yet 
seen  Cartersville,  though  I  have  been  to  Warminster, 
and  once  came  near  passing  through  Bent-Creek. 

I  went  by  stage. 

It  took  two  days  to  make  the  trip,  yet  no  one  com- 
plained, although  there  were  many  Methodist  min- 
isters aboard.     Bro.  Lafferty  had  not  been  born.     I 

233 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

thought  it  simply  glorious.  There  was  an  unnatural 
preponderance  of  preacher  to  boy — nine  of  preacher  to 
one  of  boy.  That  boy  did  not  take  a  leading  part  in 
the  conversation.  He  looked  out  of  the  window,  and 
thought  much  about  Richmond.  And  what  a  wonder- 
ful world  it  was!  So  many  trees,  such  nice  rocks,  and 
pretty  ruts  in  the  red  clay;  such  glorious  taverns,  and 
men  with  red  noses;  such  splendid  horses,  a  fresh 
team  every  ten  miles,  and  an  elegant  smell  of  leather, 
proceeding  from  the  coach,  prevailing  everywhere  as 
we  bowled  merrily  along.  And  then  the  stage  horn. 
Let  me  not  speak  of  it,  lest  Thomas  and  his  orchestra 
hang  their  heads  for  very  shame.  I  wish  somebody 
would  tell  me  where  we  stopped  the  first  night,  for  I 
have  quite  forgotten.  Anyhow,  it  was  on  the  left-hand 
side  coming  down,  and  I  rather  think  on  the  brow  of  a 
little  hill.  I  know  we  got  up  mighty  soon  the  next 
morning. 

We  drew  up  at  the  Eagle  Hotel  in  Richmond. 
Here  again  words,  and  time  too,  fail  me.  All  the 
cities  on  earth  packed  into  one  wouldn't  look  as  big 
and  fine  to  me  now  as  Main  Street  did  then.  If 
things  shrink  so  in  the  brief  space  of  a  lifetime,  what 
would  be  the  general  appearance,  say  of  Petersburg, 
if  one  should  live  a  million  or  so  of  years  ?  This  is  an 
interesting  question,  which  you  may  discuss  with  your- 
self, dear  reader. 

Going  northward,  I  remained  a  year  or  two,  and  on 
my  return  the  "  canell "  was  finished.  I  had  seen  bigger 
places  than  Richmond,  but  had  yet  to  have  my  first 
experience  of  canal  travelling.     The  packet-landing  at 

234 


CANAL   REMINISCENCES 

the  foot  of  Eighth  Street  presented  a  scene  of  great 
activity.  Passengers  on  foot  and  in  vehicles  continued 
to  arrive  up  to  the  moment  of  starting.  I  took  a  peep 
at  the  cabin,  wondering  much  how  all  the  passengers 
were  to  be  accommodated  for  the  night,  saw  how 
nicely  the  baggage  was  stored  away  on  deck,  admired 
the  smart  waiters,  and  picked  up  a  deal  of  information 
generally.  I  became  acquainted  with  the  names  of 
Edmond  &  Davenport  in  Richmond,  and  Boyd, 
Edmond  &  Davenport  in  Lynchburg,  the  owners  of 
the  packet-line,  and  thought  to  myself,  "What  im- 
mensely rich  men  they  must  be!  Why,  these  boats 
cost  ten  times  as  much  as  a  stage-coach,  and  I  am  told 
they  have  them  by  the  dozen." 

At  last  we  were  off,  slowly  pushed  along  under  the 
bridge  on  Seventh  Street;  then  the  horses  were  hitched; 
then  slowly  along  till  we  passed  the  crowd  of  boats 
near  the  city,  until  at  length,  with  a  lively  jerk  as  the 
horses  fell  into  a  trot,  away  we  went,  the  cut-water 
throwing  up  the  spray  as  we  rounded  the  Penitentiary 
hill,  and  the  passengers  lingering  on  deck  to  get  a  last 
look  at  the  fair  City  of  Richmond,  lighted  by  the  pale 
rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

As  the  shadows  deepened,  everybody  went  below. 
There  was  always  a  crowd  in  those  days,  but  it  was  a 
crowd  for  the  most  part  of  our  best  people,  and  no  one 
minded  it.  I  was  little,  and  it  took  little  room  to  ac- 
commodate me.  Everything  seemed  as  cozy  and  com- 
fortable as  heart  could  wish.  I  brought  to  the  table — 
an  excellent  one  it  was — a  school-boy's  appetite,  sharp- 
ened by  travel,  and  thought  it  was  "just  splendid." 

235 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

Supper  over,  the  men  went  on  deck  to  smoke,  while 
the  ladies  busied  themselves  with  draughts  or  back- 
gammon, with  conversation  or  with  books.  But  not 
for  long.  The  curtains  which  separated  the  female 
from  the  male  department  were  soon  drawn,  in  order 
that  the  steward  and  his  aids  might  make  ready  the 
berths.  These  were  three  deep,  "lower,"  "middle," 
and  "upper",  and  great  was  the  desire  on  the  part  of 
the  men  not  to  be  consigned  to  the  "upper."  Being 
light  as  cork,  I  rose  naturally  to  the  top,  clambering 
thither  by  the  leathern  straps  with  the  agility  of  a  mon- 
key, and  enjoying  as  best  I  might  the  trampling  over- 
head whenever  we  approached  a  lock.  I  didn't  mind 
this  much,  but  when  the  fellow  who  had  snubbed  the 
boat  jumped  down  about  four  feet,  right  on  my  head  as 
it  were,  it  was  pretty  severe.  Still  I  slept  the  sleep  of 
youth.  We  all  went  to  bed  early.  A  few  lingered, 
talking  in  low  tones;  the  way-passengers,  in  case  there 
was  a  crowd,  were  dumped  upon  mattresses,  placed 
on  the  dining-tables. 

The  lamp  shed  a  dim  light  over  the  sleepers,  and  all 
went  well  till  some  one — and  there  always  was  some 
one — began  to  snore.  Sn-a-a-aw — aw-aw-pooj!  They 
would  turn  uneasily  and  try  to  compose  themselves  to 

slumber  again.     No  use.     Sn-a-a-aw — poof!    "D 

that  fellow!  Chunk  him  in  the  ribs,  somebody,  and 
make  him  turn  over.  Is  this  thing  to  go  on  forever? 
Gentlemen,  are  you  going  to  stand  this  all  night?  If 
you  are,  I  am  not.  I  am  going  to  get  up  and  dress. 
Who  is  he,  anyhow?  No  gentleman  would  or  could 
snore  in  that  way!" 

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CANAL   REMINISCENCES 

After  awhile  silence  would  be  restored,  and  all  would 
drop  off  to  sleep  again,  except  the  little  fellow  in  the 
upper  berth,  who,  lying  there,  would  listen  to  the 
trahn-ahn-ahi-ahn  of  the  packet-horn,  as  we  drew 
nigh  the  locks.  How  mournfully  it  sounded  in  the 
night!  what  a  doleful  thing  it  is  at  best,  and  how  dif- 
ferent from  the  stage-horn,  with  its  cheery,  ringing 
notes!  The  difference  in  the  horns  marks  the  differ- 
ence in  the  two  eras  of  travel;  not  that  the  canal  period 
is  doleful — I  would  not  say  that,  but  it  is  less  bright 
than  the  period  of  the  stage-coach. 

To  this  day  you  have  only  to  say,  within  my  hearing, 
trahn-ahn-ahn,  to  bring  back  the  canal  epoch.  I  can 
see  the  whole  thing  down  to  the  snubbing-post,  with 
its  deep  grooves  which  the  heavy  rope  had  worn.  In- 
deed, I  think  I  could  snub  a  boat  myself,  with  very 
little  practice,  if  the  man  on  deck  would  say  "hup!" 
to  the  horses  at  the  proper  time. 

We  turned  out  early  in  the  morning,  and  had  pre- 
cious little  room  for  dressing.  But  that  was  no  hard- 
ship to  me,  who  had  just  emerged  from  a  big  boarding- 
school  dormitory.  Still,  I  must  say,  being  now  a  grown 
and  oldish  man,  that  I  would  not  like  to  live  and  sleep 
and  dress  for  twenty  or  thirty  years  in  the  cabin  of  a 
canal-packet.  The  ceremony  of  ablution  was  per- 
formed in  a  primitive  fashion.  There  were  the  tin 
basins,  the  big  tin  dipper  with  the  long  wooden  handle. 
I  feel  it  vibrating  in  the  water  now,  and  the  water  a 
little  muddy  generally;  and  there  were  the  towels,  a 
big  one  on  a  roller,  and  the  little  ones  in  a  pile,  and  all 
of  them  wet.     These  were  discomforts,  it  is  true,  but, 

237 


CANAL  EEMINISCENCES 

pshaw!  one  good,  big,  long,  deep  draught  of  pure, 
fresh  morning  air — one  glimpse  of  the  roseate  flush 
above  the  wooded  hills  of  the  James,  one  look  at  the 
dew  besprent  bushes  and  vines  along  the  canal  bank 
— one  sweet  caress  of  dear  mother  nature  in  her  morn- 
ing robes,  made  ample  compensation  for  them  all. 
Breakfast  was  soon  served,  and  all  the  more  enjoyed 
in  consequence  of  an  hour's  fasting  on  deck;  the  sun 
came  out  in  all  his  splendor;  the  day  was  fairly  set  in, 
and  with  it  there  was  abundant  leisure  to  enjoy  the 
scenery,  that  grew  more  and  more  captivating  as  we 
rose,  lock  after  lock,  into  the  rock-bound  eminences  of 
the  upper  James.  This  scenery  I  will  not  attempt  to 
describe,  for  time  has  sadly  dimmed  it  in  my  recollec- 
tion. The  wealth  of  the  lowlands,  and  the  upland 
beauty  must  be  seen  as  I  have  seen  them,  in  the  day 
of  their  prime,  to  be  enjoyed. 

The  perfect  cultivation,  the  abundance,  the  elegance, 
the  ducal  splendor,  one  might  almost  say,  of  the  great 
estates  that  lay  along  the  canal  in  the  old  days  have 
passed  away  in  a  great  measure.  Here  were  gentle- 
men, not  merely  refined  and  educated,  fitted  to  dis- 
play a  royal  hospitality  and  to  devote  their  leisure  to 
the  study  of  the  art  and  practice  of  government,  but 
they  were  great  and  greatly  successful  farmers  as  well. 
The  land  teemed  with  all  manner  of  products,  cereals, 
fruits,  what  not!  negroes  by  the  hundreds  and  the 
thousands,  under  wise  directions,  gentle  but  firm  con- 
trol, plied  the  hoe  to  good  purpose.  There  was  enough 
and  to  spare  for  all — to  spare?  aye!  to  bestow  with 
glad   and   lavish   hospitality.     A   mighty   change   has 

238 


CANAL   REMINISCENCES 

been  wrought.  What  that  change  is  in  all  of  its  effects 
mine  eyes  have  happily  been  spared  the  seeing;  but 
well  I  remember — I  can  never  forget — how  from  time 
to  time  the  boat  would  stop  at  one  of  these  estates,  and 
the  planter,  his  wife,  his  daughters,  and  the  guests 
that  were  going  home  with  him,  would  be  met  by  those 
who  had  remained  behind,  and  how  joyous  the  greet- 
ings were!  It  was  a  bright  and  happy  scene,  and  it 
continually  repeated  itself  as  we  went  onward. 

In  fine  summer  weather,  the  passengers,  male  and 
female,  stayed  most  of  the  time  on  deck,  where  there 
was  a  great  deal  to  interest,  and  naught  to  mar  the 
happiness,  except  the  oft-repeated  warning,  "braidge!" 
"low  braidge!"  No  well-regulated  packet-hand  was 
ever  allowed  to  say  plain  "bridge";  that  was  an  ety- 
mological crime  in  canal  ethics.  For  the  men,  this 
on-deck  existence  was  especially  delightful;  it  is  such 
a  comfort  to  spit  plump  into  the  water  without  the 
trouble  of  feeling  around  with  your  head,  in  the  midst 
of  a  political  discussion,  for  the  spittoon. 

As  for  me,  I  often  went  below,  to  devour  Dickens's 
earlier  novels,  which  were  then  appearing  in  rapid 
succession.  But,  drawn  by  the  charm  of  the  scenery, 
I  would  often  drop  my  book  and  go  back  on  deck 
again.  There  was  an  islet  in  the  river — where,  ex- 
actly, I  cannot  tell — which  had  a  beauty  of  its  own  for 
me,  because  from  the  moment  I  first  saw  it,  my  pur- 
pose was  to  make  it  the  scene  of  a  romance,  when  I 
got  to  be  a  great  big  man,  old  enough  to  write  for  the 
papers.  There  is  a  point  at  which  the  passengers  would 
get  off,  and  taking  a  near  cut  across  the  hills,  would 

239 


CANAL   REMINISCENCES 

stretch  their  legs  with  a  mile  or  two  of  walking.  It 
was  unmanly,  I  held,  to  miss  that.  Apropos  of  scen- 
ery, I  must  not  forget  the  haunted  house  near  Man- 
chester, which  was  pointed  out  soon  after  we  left  Rich- 
mond, and  filled  me  with  awe;  for  though  I  said  I  did 
not  believe  in  ghosts,  I  did.  The  ruined  mill,  a  mile 
or  two  farther  on,  was  always  an  object  of  melancholy 
interest  to  me;  and  of  all  the  locks  from  Lynchburg 
down,  the  Three-Mile  Lock  pleased  me  most.  It  is  a 
pretty  place,  as  every  one  will  own  on  seeing  it.  It 
was  so  clean  and  green,  and  white  and  thrifty-looking. 
To  me  it  was  simply  beautiful.  I  wanted  to  live  there; 
I  ought  to  have  lived  there.  I  was  built  for  a  lock- 
keeper — have  that  exact  moral  and  mental  shape. 
Ah!  to  own  your  own  negro,  who  would  do  all  the 
drudgery  of  opening  the  gates.  Occasionally  you 
would  go  through  the  form  of  putting  your  shoulder 
to  the  huge  wooden  levers,  if  that  is  what  they  call 
them,  by  which  the  gates  are  opened;  to  own  your  own 
negro  and  live  and  die  calmly  at  a  lock!  What  more 
could  the  soul  ask?  I  do  think  that  the  finest  picture 
extant  of  peace  and  contentment — a  little  abnormal, 
perhaps,  in  the  position  of  the  animal — is  that  of  a 
sick  mule  looking  out  of  the  window  of  a  canal  freight- 
boat.  And  that  you  could  see  every  day  from  the 
porch  of  your  cottage,  if  you  lived  at  a  lock,  owned 
your  own  negro,  and  there  was  no  great  rush  of  busi- 
ness on  the  canal,  (and  there  seldom  was),  on  the 
"Jeems  and  Kanawhy,"  as  old  Capt.  Sam  Wyatt  al- 
ways called  it,  leaving  out  the  word  "canal,"  for  that 
was  understood.     Yes,  one  ought  to  live  as  a  pure  and 

240 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

resigned   lock-keeper,    if  one   would   be   blest,   really 
blest. 

Now  that  I  am  on  the  back  track,  let  me  add  that, 
however  bold  and  picturesque  the  cliffs  and  bluffs 
near  Lynchburg  and  beyond,  there  was  nothing  from 
one  end  of  the  canal  to  the  other  to  compare  with  the 
first  sight  of  Richmond,  when,  rounding  a  corner  not 
far  from  Hollywood,  it  burst  full  upon  the  vision,  its 
capitol,  its  spires,  its  happy  homes,  flushed  with  the 
red  glow  of  evening.  And  what  it  looked  to  be,  it  was. 
Its  interior,  far  from  belieing  its  exterior,  surpassed  it. 
The  world  over,  there  is  no  lovelier  site  for  a  city;  and 
the  world  over  there  was  no  city  that  quite  equalled  it 
in  the  charm  of  its  hospitality,  its  refinement,  its  intel- 
ligence, its  cordial  welcome  to  strangers.  Few  of  its 
inhabitants  were  very  rich,  fewer  still  were  very  poor. 
But  I  must  not  dwell  on  this.  Beautiful  city!  beauti- 
ful city!  you  may  grow  to  be  as  populous  as  London, 
and  surely  no  one  wishes  you  greater  prosperity  than 
I;  but  grow  as  you  may,  you  can  never  be  happier 
than  you  were  in  the  days  whereof  I  speak.  How 
your  picture  comes  back  to  me,  softened  by  time, 
glorified  by  all  the  tender,  glowing  tints  of  memory. 
Around  you  now  is  the  added  glory  of  history,  a  de- 
fence almost  unrivalled  in  the  annals  of  warfare;  but 
for  me  there  is  something  even  brighter  than  historic 
fame,  a  hue  derived  only  from  the  heaven  of  memory. 
In  my  childhood,  when  all  things  were  beautiful  by 
the  unclouded  light  of  "the  young  soul  wandering  here 
in  nature,"  I  saw  you  in  your  youth,  full  of  hope,  full 
of  promise,  full  of  all  those  gracious  influences  which 

241 


CANAL  KEMINISCENCES 

made  your  State  greatest  among  all  her  sisters,  and 
which  seemed  concentrated  in  yourself.  Be  your  ma- 
turity what  it  may,  it  can  never  be  brighter  than 
this. 

To  return  to  the  boat.  All  the  scenery  in  the  world 
— rocks  that  Salvator  would  love  to  paint,  and  skies 
that  Claude  could  never  limn — all  the  facilities  for 
spitting  that  earth  affords,  avail  not  to  keep  a  Vir- 
ginian away  from  a  julep  on  a  hot  summer  day.  From 
time  to  time  he  would  descend  from  the  deck  of  the 
packet  and  refresh  himself.  The  bar  was  small,  but 
vigorous  and  healthy.  I  was  then  in  the  lemonade 
stage  of  boyhood,  and  it  was  not  until  many  years 
afterward  that  I  rose  through  porterees  and  claret- 
punches  to  the  sublimity  of  the  sherry  cobbler,  and 
discovered  that  the  packet  bar  supplied  genuine  Ha- 
vana cigars  at  fourpence-ha'penny.  Why,  eggs  were 
but  sixpence  a  dozen  on  the  canal  bank,  and  the 
national  debt  wouldn't  have  filled  a  teacup.  Internal 
revenue  was  unknown;  the  coupons  receivable  for 
taxes  inconceivable,  and  forcible  readjustment  a  thing 
undreamt  of  in  Virginian  philosophy.  Mr.  Mallock's 
pregnant  question,  "Is  life  worth  living?"  was  an- 
swered very  satisfactorily,  methought,  as  I  watched 
the  Virginians  at  their  juleps:  "Gentlemen,  your  very 
good  health";  "Colonel,  my  respects  to  you";  "My 
regards,  Judge.  When  shall  I  see  you  again  at  my 
house  ?  Can't  you  stop  now  and  stay  a  little  while,  if 
it  is  only  a  week  or  two  ?"  "Sam,"  (to  the  barkeeper), 
"duplicate  these  drinks." 

How  they  smacked  their  lips*    how  hot  the  talk  on 

242 


CANAL   REMINISCENCES 


politics  became;  and  how  pernicious  this  example  of 
drinking  in  public  was  to  the  boy  who  looked  on!  Oh! 
yes;  and  if  you  expect  your  son  to  go  through  life  with- 
out bad  examples  set  him  by  his  elders  in  a  thousand 
ways,  you  must  take  him  to  another  sphere.  Still,  the 
fewer  bad  examples  the  better,  and  you,  at  least,  need 
not  set  them. 

Travelling  always  with  my  father,  who  was  a  mer- 
chant, it  was  natural  that  I  should  become  acquainted 
with  merchants.     But  I  remember  very  few  of  them. 
Mr.  Daniel  H.  London,  who  was  a  character,  and  Mr. 
Fleming  James,  who  often  visited  his  estate  in  Roanoke, 
and  was  more  of  a  character  than  London,  I  recall 
quite  vividly.     I  remember,  too,  Mr.  Francis  B.  Deane, 
who  was  always  talking  about  Mobjack  Bay,  and  who 
was  yet  to  build  the  Langhorne  Foundry  in  Lynch- 
burg.    I  thought  if  I  could  just  see  Mobjack  Bay,  I 
would   be  happy.     According  to  Mr.   Deane,   and  I 
agreed  with  him,  there  ought  by  this  time  to  have  been 
a  great  city  on  Mobjack  Bay.     I  saw  Mobjack  Bay 
last  summer,  and  was  happy.     Any  man  who  goes  to 
Gloucester  will  be  happy.     More  marked  than  all  of 
these  characters  was  Major  Yancey,  of  Buckingham, 
"the  wheel-horse  of  Democracy,"  he  was  called;  Tim. 
Rives,  of  Prince  George,  whose  face,  some  said,  re- 
sembled the  inside  of  a  gunlock,  being  the  war-horse. 
Major  Yancey's  stout  figure,  florid  face,  and  animated, 
forcible  manner,  come  back  with  some  distinctness; 
and  there  are  other  forms,  but  they  are  merely  out- 
lines barely  discernible.     So  pass  away  men  who,  in 
their  day,  were  names  and  powers — shadows  gone  into 

243 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

shadowland,  leaving  but  a  dim  print  upon  a  few  brains, 
which  in  time  will  soon  flit  away. 

Arrived  in  Lynchburg,  the  effect  of  the  canal  was 
soon  seen  in  the  array  of  freight-boats,  the  activity  and 
bustle  at  the  packet  landing.  New  names  and  new 
faces,  from  the  canal  region  of  New  York,  most  likely, 
were  seen  and  heard.  I  became  acquainted  with  the 
family  of  Captain  Huntley,  who  commanded  one  of 
the  boats,  and  was  for  some  years  quite  intimate  with 
his  pretty  daughters,  Lizzie,  Harriet,  and  Emma. 
Captain  Huntley  lived  on  Church  Street,  next  door  to 
the  Reformed,  or  as  it  was  then  called,  the  Radical 
Methodist  Church,  and  nearly  opposite  to  Mr.  Peleg 
Seabury.  He  was  for  a  time  connected  in  some  way 
with  the  Exchange  Hotel,  but  removed  with  his  family 
to  Cincinnati,  since  when  I  have  never  but  once  heard 
of  them.  Where  are  they  all,  I  wonder  ?  Then,  there 
was  a  Mr.  Watson,  who  lived  with  Boyd,  Edmond  & 

Davenport,  married  first  a  Miss  ,  and  afterward, 

Mrs.  Christian,  went  into  the  tobacco  business  in 
Brooklyn,  then  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace,  not  the 
slightest.  Then  there  was  a  rare  fellow,  Charles  Buck- 
ley, who  lived  in  the  same  store  with  Watson,  had  a 
fine  voice,  and,  without  a  particle  of  religion  in  the 
ordinary  sense,  loved  dearly  to  sing  at  revivals.  I  went 
with  him;  we  took  back  seats,  and  sang  with  great 
fervor.  This  was  at  night.  Besides  Captain  Huntley, 
I  remember  among  the  captains  of  a  later  date,  Capt. 
Jack  Yeatman;  and  at  a  date  still  later  his  brother, 
Capt.  C.  E.  Yeatman,  both  of  whom  are  still  living. 
There    was   still    another   captain    whose    name    was 

244 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

Love something,  a  very  handsome  man ;  and  these 

are  all. 

In  1849,  having  graduated  in  Philadelphia,  I  made 
one  of  my  last  through-trips  on  the  canal,  the  happy 
owner  of  a  diploma  in  a  green-tin  case,  and  the  utterly 
miserable  possessor  of  a  dyspepsia  which  threatened 
my  life.  I  enjoyed  the  night  on  deck,  sick  as  I  was. 
The  owl's  "long  hoot,"  the  "plaintive  cry  of  the  whip- 
poorwill";  the  melody — for  it  is  by  association  a  mel- 
ody, which  the  Greeks  have  but  travestied  with  their 
brek-ke-ex,  ko-ex — of  the  frogs,  the  mingled  hum  of 
insect  life,  the  "stilly  sound"  of  inanimate  nature,  the 
soft  respiration  of  sleeping  earth,  and  above  all,  the 
ineffable  glory  of  the  stars.  Oh!  heaven  of  heavens, 
into  which  the  sick  boy,  lying  alone  on  deck,  then 
looked,  has  thy  charm  fled,  too,  with  so  many  other 
charms?  Have  thirty  years  of  suffering,  of  thought, 
of  book-reading,  brought  only  the  unconsoling  knowl- 
edge, that  yonder  twinkling  sparks  of  far-off  fire  are 
not  lamps  that  light  the  portals  of  the  palace  of  the 
King  and  Father,  but  suns  like  our  sun,  surrounded 
by  earths  full  of  woe  and  doubt  like  our  own;  and  that 
heaven,  if  heaven  there  be,  is  not  in  the  sky;  not  in 
space,  vast  as  it  is;  not  in  time,  endless  though  it  be — 
where  then?  "Near  thee,  in  thy  heart!"  Who  feels 
this,  who  will  say  this  of  himself?  Away,  thou  gray- 
haired,  sunken-cheeked  sceptic,  away!  Come  back  to 
me,  come  back  to  me,  wan  youth;  there  on  that  deck, 
with  the  treasure  of  thy  faith,  thy  trust  in  men,  thy  wor- 
ship of  womankind,  thy  hope,  that  sickness  could  not 
chill,  in  the  sweet  possibilities  of  life.    Come  back  to  me! 

245 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

— 'Tis  a  vain  cry.  The  youth  lies  there  on  the  packet's 
deck,  looking  upward  to  the  stars,  and  he  will  not  return. 
The  trip  in  1849  was  a  dreary  one  until  there  came 
aboard  a  dear  lady  friend  of  mine  who  had  recently 
been  married.  I  had  not  had  a  good  honest  talk  with 
a  girl  for  eighteen  solid — I  think  I  had  better  say  long, 
(we  always  say  long  when  speaking  of  the  war) — "fo' 
long  years!" — I  have  heard  it  a  thousand  times — for 
eighteen  long  months,  and  you  may  imagine  how  I 
enjoyed  the  conversation  with  my  friend.  She  wasn't 
very  pretty,  and  her  husband  was  a  Louisa  man;  but 
her  talk,  full  of  good  heart  and  good  sense,  put  new 
life  into  me.  One  other  through-trip,  the  very  last,  I 
made  in  1851.  On  my  return  in  1853,  I  went  by  rail 
as  far  as  Farmville,  and  thence  by  stage  to  Lynchburg; 
so  that,  for  purposes  of  through  travel,  the  canal  lasted, 
one  may  say,  only  ten  or  a  dozen  years.  And  now  the 
canal,  after  a  fair  and  costly  trial,  is  to  give  place  to  the 
rail,  and  I,  in  common  with  the  great  body  of  Vir- 
ginians, am  heartily  glad  of  it.  It  has  served  its  pur- 
pose well  enough,  perhaps,  for  its  day  and  generation. 
The  world  has  passed  by  it,  as  it  has  passed  by  slavery. 
Henceforth  Virginia  must  prove  her  metal  in  the  front 
of  steam,  electricity,  and  possibly  mightier  forces  still. 
If  she  can't  hold  her  own  in  their  presence,  she  must 
go  under.  I  believe  she  will  hold  her  own;  these  very 
forces  will  help  her.  The  dream  of  the  great  canal  to 
the  Ohio,  with  its  nine-mile  tunnel,  costing  fifty  or 
more  millions,  furnished  by  the  general  government, 
and  revolutionizing  the  commerce  of  the  United  States, 
much  as  the  discovery  of  America  and  opening  of  the 

246 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

Suez  Canal  revolutionized  the  commerce  of  the  world, 
must  be  abandoned  along  with  other  dreams. 

One  cannot  withhold  admiration  from  President 
Johnston  and  other  officers  of  the  canal,  who  made 
such  a  manful  struggle  to  save  it.  But  who  can  war 
against  the  elements?  Nature  herself,  imitating  man, 
seems  to  have  taken  special  delight  in  kicking  the 
canal  after  it  was  down.  So  it  must  go.  Well,  let  it 
go.  It  knew  Virginia  in  her  palmiest  days  and  it 
crushed  the  stage  coach;  isn't  that  glory  enough?  I 
think  it  is.  But  I  can't  help  feeling  sorry  for  the  bull- 
frogs; there  must  be  a  good  many  of  them  between 
here  and  Lexington.  What  will  become  of  them,  I 
wonder?  They  will  follow  their  predecessors,  the  bat- 
teaux;  and  their  pale,  green  ghosts,  seated  on  the  prows 
of  shadowy  barges,  will  be  heard  piping  the  rounde- 
lays of  long-departed  joys. 

Farewell  canal,  frogs,  musk-rats,  mules,  packet- 
horns  and  all,  a  long  farewell.  Welcome  the  rail 
along  the  winding  valley  of  the  James.  Wake  up, 
Fluvanna!  Arise,  old  Buckingham!  Exalt  thyself,  O 
Goochland!  And  thou,  O  Powhatan,  be  not  afraid 
nor  shame-faced  any  longer,  but  raise  thy  Ebenezer 
freely,  for  the  day  of  thy  redemption  is  at  hand.  Willis 
J.  Dance  shall  rejoice;  yea,  Wm.  Pope  Dabney  shall 
be  exceeding  glad.  And  all  hail  our  long-lost  brother! 
come  to  these  empty,  aching  arms,  dear  Lynch's  Ferry. 

I  have  always  thought  that  the  unnatural  separation 
between  Lynchburg  and  Richmond  was  the  source  of 
all  our  troubles.  In  some  way,  not  entirely  clear  to 
me,  it  brought  on  the  late  war,  and  it  will  bring  on 

247 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

another,  if  a  reunion  between  the  two  cities  does  not 
soon  take  place.  Baltimore,  that  pretty  and  attrac- 
tive, but  meddlesome  vixen,  is  at  the  bottom~of  it  all. 
Richmond  will  not  fear  Baltimore  after  the  rails  are 
laid.  Her  prosperity  will  date  anew  from  the  time  of 
her  iron  wedding  with  Lynchburg.  We  shall  see  her 
merchants  on  our  streets  again,  and  see  them  often. 
That  will  be  a  better  day. 

Alas!  there  are  many  we  shall  not  see.  John  G. 
Meem,  Samuel  McCorkle,  John  Robin  McDaniel, 
John  Hollins,  Charles  Phelps,  John  R.  D.  Payne,  Jehu 
Williams,  Ambrose  Rucker,  Wilson  P.  Byrant  (who 
died  the  other  day),  and  many,  many  others,  will  not 
come  to  Richmond  any  more.  They  are  gone.  And  if 
they  came,  they  would  not  meet  the  men  they  used  to 
meet;  very  few  of  them  at  least.  Jacquelin  P.  Taylor, 
John  N.  Gordon,  Thomas  R.  Price,  Lewis  D.  Cren- 
shaw, James  Dunlop — why  add  to  the  list  ?  They  too 
are  gone. 

But  the  sons  of  the  old-time  merchants  of  Lynch- 
burg will  meet  here  the  sons  of  the  old-time  merchants 
of  Richmond,  and  the  meeting  of  the  two,  the  mingling 
of  the  waters — Blackwater  creek  with  Bacon  Quarter 
branch — deuce  take  it!  I  have  gone  off  on  the  water 
line  again — the  admixture,  I  should  say,  of  the  sills  of 
Campbell  with  the  spikes  of  Henrico,  the  readjust- 
ment, so  to  speak,  of  the  ties  (railroad  ties)  that  bind 
us,  will  more  than  atone  for  the  obsolete  canal,  and 
draw  us  all  the  closer  by  reason  of  our  long  separation 
and  estrangement.  Richmond  and  Lynchburg  united 
will  go  onward  and  upward  in  a  common  career  of 

248 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES 

glory  and  prosperity.  And  is  there,  can  there  be,  a 
Virginian,  deserving  the  name,  who  would  envy  that 
glory,  or  for  a  moment  retard  that  prosperity?  Not 
one,  I  am  sure. 

Allow  me,  now  that  my  reminiscences  are  ended, 
allow  me,  as  an  old  stager  and  packet-horn  reverer, 
one  last  Parthian  shot.  It  is  this:  If  the  James  River 
does  not  behave  better  hereafter  than  it  has  done  of 
late,  the  railroad  will  have  to  be  suspended  in  mid- 
heavens  by  means  of  a  series  of  stationary  balloons; 
travelling  then  may  be  a  little  wabbly,  but  at  all  events, 
it  won't  be  wet. 


249 


X 

THE  SACRED  FURNITURE  WAREROOMS 

'  I  ^HE  stranger  in  Lynchburg  who  stops  at  the  City 
-*-  Hotel,  in  passing  to  and  fro,  will  not  fail  to  be 
struck  with  the  singular  aspect  of  a  building  not  far 
from  his  lodgings.  Upon  the  front  of  this  building, 
which  stands  a  little  back  from  the  house-line  of  the 
street,  he  will  find  marked — 

"E.  J.  FOLKES, 

FURNITURE  WAREROOMS." 

The  shape  of  the  house  so  marked  is  unlike  the  shape 
of  houses  appropriated  to  business  purposes;  but  what 
will  most  curiously  attract  the  stranger's  eye,  is  a  little 
belfry  perched  above  the  gable.  No  bell  swings  in 
that  belfry.  Under  a  hastily-made  shed-porch  in  front 
of  the  house  will  be  found  a  number  of  rocking-chairs, 
tables,  and  other  articles,  showing  what  may  be  ex- 
pected inside.  In  the  sweet  summer  mornings,  the 
proprietor  may  not  infrequently  be  seen  seated  in  one 
of  his  rocking-chairs,  quietly  reading  a  newspaper. 

If  the  stranger  will  venture  to  open  either  of  the  two 
folding  doors  that  give  ingress  to  this  building,  he  will 
find  the  interior  filled  to  repletion  with  all  manner  of 

250 


THE   SACRED   FURNITURE   WAREROOMS 

furniture.  Let  him  go  boldly  in  among  the  multitude 
of  bureaus,  sofas,  wash-stands,  pier-tables,  and  lounges. 
All  is  very  still  there.  The  bright  and  glossy  crowd  of 
dumb  domestics  are  patiently  awaiting  owners  to  come 
and  claim  them.  One  is  reminded  of  those  Northern 
intelligence  offices,  where  hosts  of  Irish  and  German 
girls  sit,  without  speaking,  day  after  day;  only  here 
the  servants  are  not  flesh  and  blood,  but  structures  of 
rosewood,  mahogany,  and  marble. 

A  strange  and  not  wholly  pleasant  feeling  creeps 
over  the  visitor  as  he  gazes  on  the  inanimate  forms  that 
people  the  broad  wareroom. 

If  this  furniture  had  been  used,  if  it  were  old,  and 
black,  and  rickety,  the  feeling  should  be  desolate  in- 
deed. But  now  that  it  is  new,  and  rich,  and  beautiful, 
it  should  suggest  cheerful  fancies  only.  Hither  the 
young  couples  will  come  to  furnish  their  house — their 
home — sweet,  because  it  is  theirs.  In  yonder  tall  ward- 
robe will  hang  the  spotless  white  dresses  of  the  bride, 
and  the  brave  black  finery  of  the  groom.  The  glass  on 
that  marble-topped  bureau  will  reflect  the  blushes  of 
her  pure  young  face,  and  the  drawers  will  be  proud  to 
hold  the  delicate  laces  and  the  manifold  "nice  noth- 
ings" that  pertain  to  her  in  right  of  her  sex.  Upon 
that  gold-embroidered  tete-a-tete,  the  happy  pair  will 
tell  each  other  the  story  of  their  lovedays — again  and 
again — tiring  never  of  that  sweet  time  when  the  breeze 
blew  fresh  and  fragrant  from  the  ever-nearing  Isle  of 
Hope.  Surely  the  dumb  furniture  is  eloquent,  and 
tells  charming  stories! 

Nevertheless,  to  the  visitor,  meditating  in  the  midst 

251 


THE   SACRED   FURNITURE   WAREROOMS 

of  the  ware  room,  there  comes  through  all  the  meshes  of 
his  silver-woven  fancies,  a  something,  out  of  keeping 
with  the  place,  breathing  awe  upon  him. 

What  is  this?  and  why  comes  it? 

It  is  the  nameless  spirit  that  clings  to  and  lingers  in 
and  around  every  unpeopled  habitation;  and  it  comes 
here  with  peculiar  solemnity  and  power  because  this 
wareroom  was  once  the  tabernacle  and  house  of  the 
Most  High  God!  Yea,  it  was  even  so;  and  albeit  the 
pulpit  hung  with  green,  the  old-fashioned  plain  benches, 
and  the  deep-toned  bell  are  gone,  the  stranger  may 
still  see  that  this  was  a  church  once.  Here  the  mys- 
terious rites  that  conjoin  the  transient  mortal  with  the 
Source  infinite  and  eternal  of  life,  were  performed. 
Here  religion,  in  its  terror  and  its  tenderness,  in  the 
sublimity  of  its  hopes  and  the  boundlessness  of  its 
despair,  was  preached  by  lips  fired  almost  to  prophecy ; 
here  prayers  as  pure  as  ever  trembled  up  to  God's 
throne  were  uttered;  and  here  repentance  as  sincere 
as  ever  transformed  erring  men  was  felt  and  avowed. 
Can  a  soul  know  its  unseen  tragedies  in  time  and 
place,  and  leave  no  mute  record  there  ?  Can  the  glow 
and  the  joy  of  a  faith  that  dulls  the  last  sharp  pang, 
and  triumphs  over  decay  be  felt,  and  the  spot  that 
saw  the  birth  of  that  faith  bear  no  witness  of  it  ?  Can 
celestial  ministers  bring  messages  of  everlasting  peace 
to  the  fear-harrowed  soul,  and  no  lingering  trace,  per- 
ceptible to  the  finer  senses,  remain  upon  the  walls  hal- 
lowed by  the  touches  of  their  wings,  and  on  the  floor 
pressed  once  by  their  noiseless  sandals?  Nay,  truly. 
If  the  fireside  delights,  and  all  the  "fair  humanities" 

252 


THE   SACRED   FURNITURE    WAREROOMS 

that  endear  the  humblest  dwelling,  will  cluster  about 
the  broken  hearthstone,  and  redeem  with  tenderest 
suggestions  the  horror  of  the  charred  and  fallen  rafters, 
how  much  more  shall  the  higher  emotions  of  religion 
hallow  holier  places,  and  with  greater  tenacity  cling 
to  ruined  shrines  and  deserted  churches! 

But  the  palpable  awe  of  the  sacred  wareroom  must 
be  vague  and  fleeting  to  the  stranger.  It  is  deep,  it 
is  lasting  to  him  who  remembers  the  old  church  in 
its  prime.  When  the  white  palings  in  front  enclosed 
a  little  yard,  green  with  a  patch  of  sward  on  either 
side,  and  a  little  paper-mulberry  tree  in  the  centre  of 
each  patch.  When  the  bell,  tolling  early  on  a  bright 
Sunday  morning,  summoned  the  children,  clean  with 
starched  white  clothes,  to  the  Sabbath-school.  When 
the  mind,  fretted  now  and  hardened  with  business 
cares,  was  concerned  about  the  questions  of  the  cate- 
chism, and  the  ear  familiar  with  the  getting-by-heart 
hum  of  the  hundred  round-faced  scholars. 

Graver  was  the  time  when  the  morning  service 
came.  The  little  yard  was  filled  then  with  gentlemen 
grouped  about  the  mulberry  tree,  after  they  had  as- 
sisted the  ladies  in  to  the  right-hand  door.  Youths 
were  there,  arrayed  in  their  best,  watching  the  fair 
faces  and  the  charming  figures  as  they  came  walking, 
or  tripped  lightly  out  of  carriages. 

Within  all  was  hushed.  The  scholars,  who  short- 
while  hummed  so  loudly,  were  silent  now,  and  sat 
demurely  by  their  parents'  sides,  with  restless  feet 
that  could  not  touch  the  floor.  Soon,  overcome  with 
heat,   the  little   forms   would   be  stretched   upon   the 

253 


THE    SACRED   FURNITURE    WAREROOMS 

bench,  the  moist  young  brows,  protected  by  a  kindly 

handkerchief,  reposing  in  a  father's  or  a  mother's 
lap. 

Alas!  they  who  slept  sweet  slumbers  in  the  happy 
day  when  this  wareroom  was  a  church,  shall  sleep  thus 
again  no  more.  The  hands  whose  gentle  touches 
waked  those  sleepers  when  the  sermon  ended,  have 
mouldered  into  dust,  or  tremble  now  with  the  palsy  of 
age.  The  flight  of  years  has  made  men  and  women 
of  those  children  who  in  this  wareroom  first  heard 
the  public  accents  of  prayer  and  praise.  Their  youth 
is  gone,  and  with  it  the  wonder  and  the  beauty  of  life, 
and  almost  of  religion. 

Memories  still  more  solemn  come  to  him  who  once 
sat  in  this  sanctuary — memories  of  high  religious  fes- 
tivals and  revivals,  with  their  excitement,  their  power, 
their  terror,  with  that  wondrous  fascination  which  the 
sight  of  weeping  men  and  women,  repenting,  and 
heart-broken,  and  joyful,  must  ever  give. 

But  sadder  yet,  and  sweeter  than  these,  come  mem- 
ories imbued  with  the  intense  and  mysterious  charm 
of  sacred  music. 

Ah!  the  singers,  the  singers  that  sang  in  this  old 
church!  Few,  very  few  of  them  remain.  Some  sing 
no  longer;  some  have  wandered  from  the  fold;  some 
live  in  far  States  and  in  other  cities;  and  some — are 
sleeping. 

One  noble  old  man,  whose  fine,  venerable  head  kept 
time  to  the  divine  music  in  his  heart,  we  all  remember. 
Warm  was  he;  true,  upright,  full  of  love  toward  his 
fellow-man,  full  of  service  to  his  Master,  and  not  to  be 

254 


THE    SACRED   FURNITURE   WARER00A1S 

wearied  in  well-doing.     Who  that  ever  heard  him  can 
forget  with  what  fervor  he  was  wont  to  sing: 

'  All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus  name, 
Let  angels  prostrate  fall; 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem, 
And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all." 

lending  his  whole  soul  to  the  melodious  utterance  of 
that  name  he  loved  so  well? 

His  earthly  voice  fell  silent  long  ago;  his  honored 
dust  reposes  in  the  graveyard  of  his  church;  and  there 
a  marble  obelisk  rises  to  attest  the  esteem  his  townsmen 
justly  bore  him. 

One  other  singer,  the  sweetest  that  ever  sang  in  this 
old  church,  returns  dim  but  beautiful  to  the  filling 
eyes  that  gaze  upon  the  dead  space  where  once  her 
living  self — lovely  in  the  dawn  of  womanhood  and  in 
the  beauty  of  her  guilelessness — sang  praises  to  Him 
who  is  the  source  of  beauty  and  of  truth.  How  pure, 
how  sweet,  how  tender,  was  her  voice!  the  vocal  life 
of  her  sinless  heart!  the  fit,  intelligent,  worshipful,  lov- 
ing instrument  to  hymn  the  highest  music! 

Unhappy,  unhappy  singer!  Neither  thy  beauty,  nor 
thy  sweetness,  nor  thy  sinlessness,  could  save  thee  from 
the  appointed  sorrow.  It  is  over  now.  The  sweet 
voice  is  dumb,  the  loveful  lips  are  ashes,  and  the  true, 
stainless  woman's  heart  shall  throb  no  more,  no  more 
for  ever.  All  of  her  that  could  fade  lies  in  the  church- 
yard, not  far  from  him,  the  noble  Christian  father  and 
friend  of  humanity,  whose  voice  often  blended  with  her 
own  sweet  tones  when  on  earth  they  sang  together  the 

255 


THE   SACRED   FURNITURE   WAREROOMS 

songs  of  Zion.  Over  her,  the  leaves,  dark  and  glossy- 
green,  of  the  sombre  oaks  have  lightly  moved  to  the 
sighing  winds  of  many  vernal  morns;  and  upon  her 
tomb,  through  the  long  nights  of  many  autumns,  those 
leaves,  grown  sere,  have  fallen  fast,  as  tears  to  weep 
her  mournful  fate.  Peace  be  to  her,  and  joy,  and  love! 
Other  singers  there  were  in  this  old  church,  and  others 
still  who  sang  only  in  their  hearts;  all  worthy  to  be 
named,  and  all  too  sadly  well  remembered  and  recalled 
by  those  who  see  the  bowed  forms,  clad  in  deep  crape, 
that  tremblingly  walk  the  aisles  of  the  new  church,  and 
who  miss  the  reverent  faces  from  their  accustomed 
pew,  and  hear  no  more  the  well-known  voices  in  the 
choir. 

Alas!  for  life's  changes;  alas!  for  those  that  have 
already  come;  and  for  those  yet  to  come — unknown 
changes — but  which  must  come — oh!  how  shall  we  bear 
them? 

The  new  times  demanded  the  new  church;  its  gothic 
beauty  deserves  the  admiration  it  has  received;  its 
organ,  touched  by  a  master's  hand,  doth  utter  forth  a 
glorious  voice;  but  so  long  as  one  beam  of  the  old 
church  is  fastened  to  another,  and  so  long  as  memory 
holds  her  seat,  so  long  there  will  be  one  who  will  turn 
from  the  finer  architecture  of  the  modern  structure  and 
forget  the  grander  music  of  the  organ,  to  muse  over 
the  simpler  manners  of  the  past,  and  to  bring  back 
the  plain  hymn-music  and  the  singers  that  sang  it  of 
old,  in  the  Sacred  Furniture  Warerooms. 


256 


XI 

MY  VILE  BEARD 


GETTING   SHAVED   IN   CHARLOTTE 

HAVEN'T  got  much  beard,  but  what  little  there  is 
■*■  of  it  is  the  worst  kind  of  beard.  In  the  first  place, 
it  is  more  like  Berlin  wire,  tough  and  hard,  than  an 
animal  or  other  substance. 

Some  people,  you  know,  contend  that  the  hair  and 
nails  are  vegetables,  inasmuch  as  they  continue  to 
grow  after  a  body  is  dead.  But  my  beard  is  a  metal. 
In  the  next  place,  my  beard  crops  out  at  all  sorts  of 
angles,  that  on  my  chin  growing  downward,  like  any- 
body else's,  while  that  on  my  cheeks  grows  upward, 
and  that  on  my  throat  emerges  sideways  in  every  di- 
rection, like  the  rays  of  a  starfish.  Lastly,  my  skin  is 
exceedingly  tender,  my  jaws  very  hollow,  and  my  neck 
scraggy  and  fluted,  like  a  consumptive  Corinthian 
column — if  you  can  imagine  such  a  thing.  The  con- 
sequence is  that  I  can't  shave  myself,  even  if  I  knew 
how  to  sharpen  a  razor,  a  feat  which  I  have  often  at- 
tempted, and  shall  never  perform.  That's  certain,  for 
I've  tried  and  tried,  till  there  is  no  use  in  trying.     In- 

257 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

deed,  it  is  impossible  for  a  barber  to  shave  me  clean. 
You  see,  he  can't  get  at  my  beard,  and  if  he  could,  he 
dare  not  shave  both  ways,  for  if  he  does  he  leaves  my 
face  as  bloody  as  a  black-heart  cherry,  just  skinned. 

Leander  Harrison,  the  best  barber  in  the  State, 
according  to  my  thinking,  will  tell  you  that  my  beard 
is  the  worst  beard  that  ever  disfigured  the  human 
visage. 

How  serious  a  thing  it  is  not  to  be  able  to  shave 
myself  you  will  be  able  to  understand  as  soon  as  I  tell 
you  how  I  got  shaved  in  Charlotte.  Listen:  In  the 
year  1850  or  1851 — the  date  is  not  important — I 
started  from  town — what  town? — on  horseback — 
whose  horse's  back?  If  you  had  seen  my  horse,  you 
would  at  once  have  detected  my  business.  He  was 
a  showy  horse,  and  his  trappings,  down  to  the  very 
martingale,  were  spick  and  span  new.  Saddle-bags 
were  new,  and  full  of  new  clothes.  Umbrella  was 
new,  hat  new,  gloves  new,  whip  new — in  fact,  the 
whole  turnout,  rider  included,  had  that  slick  varnished 
look  that  things  have  when  fresh  from  the  hands  of 
the  cabinet-maker.  I  was  five  and  twenty  years  old, 
and  the  summer  was  just  closing.  Surely  you  must 
guess  that,  although  I  was  not  going  north,  my  object 
was  to  lay  in  a  stock  of  dry  goods  for  the  fall. 

The  day  was  fine.  I  had  a  plenty  of  excellent  cigars, 
and  never  felt  better  in  my  life. 

Our  appearance  ("our"  meaning  the  horse  and  my- 
self) attracted  the  attention  of  everybody  we  passed. 
We  were  especially  pleased  with  the  compliment  passed 
upon  us  by  one  of  a  group  of  small  negroes,  who  as- 

258 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

sembled  around  us  when  we  stopped  at  a  woe-begone 
house  on  the  roadside  to  get  a  drink  of  water.  The 
compliment  ran  thus:  "Unh!  if  dat  ar  ain't  de  pootyest 
white  man  and  de  pootyest  hoss  and  bridle,  I  wisht  I 
may  nuvver."  Under  the  impulse  of  this  praise  we 
struck  off  gaily  into  that  lonesome  road  that  leads  to 
the  particular  locality  in  the  County  of  Charlotte  which 
was  the  goal  of  my  ambition.  For  twenty  miles  we 
passed  not  a  solitary  traveller,  and  scarcely  a  human 
habitation. 

I  recall  only  a  single  log-hut  on  the  left-hand  side 
of  the  road.  Some  two  score  sickly  tobacco  plants 
crowded  up  to  the  very  door  of  this  hut,  showing  that 
it  was  inhabited;    but  not  a  living  thing  was  visible. 

Fifty  yards  down  the  road  I  overtook  a  draggle- 
tailed  rooster,  who  ran  out  of  my  way  and  hid  behind 
a  chestnut  tree,  and  set  up  a  crow  in  the  weak  accents 
of  unmistakable  bronchitis.  My  horse  switched  his 
tail  as  if  to  resent  the  insult,  and  on  we  went  along  the 
lonely  road.  I  began  to  feel  not  so  comfortable  in  the 
saddle  as  I  had  been  at  starting,  and  my  high  spirits 
abated.  As  I  had  never  been  in  that  region  before,  it 
soon  became  very  certain  that  my  invariable  rule  of 
getting  lost  had  not  been  broken.  But  there  was  the 
"main,  plain  road,"  and  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  follow 
it.  So  I  followed  it.  And  the  trot  of  the  showy  horse 
became  harder  and  harder.  Nothing  but  the  ever- 
delightful  and  continually  recurring  reverie,  in  which 
I  had  been  indulging  from  the  moment  I  set  out,  sus- 
tained me  while  that  showy  horse  trotted  harder  and 
still  harder  along  that  dreary  road  through  the  inter- 

259 


MY   VILE    BEARD 


minable  chestnut  woods.  All  at  once  I  was  rudely 
awakened  from  my  delicious  day-dream.  The  horse 
had  stopped;   and  this  is  what  made  him  stop: 


eNteRTaNemEnt 
By  reuBin  b  Riles 


This  sign,  painted  in  white  letters  on  a  black  ground, 
was  fastened  by  a  wooden  pin,  driven  through  its  cen- 
tre, into  an  augur  hole  in  an  immense  hewn  gate-post. 
There  was  one  post,  and  no  fence  at  all,  only  a  horse- 
rack,  made  of  a  piece  of  cedar,  with  its  many  branches 
trimmed  off,  laid  upon  two  forked  uprights  of  Spanish 
oak.  The  house  had  been  a  large  and  a  good  one. 
Now  it  was  far  gone  in  dark  decay,  as  were  also  the 
few  remaining  out-houses.  All  the  old  trees  had  died 
out;  one  side  of  the  large  yard  contained  a  thicket  of 
young  locusts,  while  the  other  was  unshaded,  and 
almost  grassless. 

I  thought  to  myself  that  Mr.  Briles's  entertainment 
was  likely  to  be  rather  indifferent.  Still,  it  was  the 
best  I  could  do.  So,  seeing  nobody,  I  sang  out,  after 
the  English  fashion — 

"House!" 

No  answer. 

"House!" 

Not  a  word. 

"HOUSE!"— this  time  as  loud  as  I  could  bawl. 

To  my  surprise  I  was  answered  from  behind. 

"Tain't  'house,"tis  Briles." 

260 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

"Ah!"  said  I,  turning  around,  "how  do  you  do,  sir?" 

"Right  peart;   how'd  y'  come  on  yourself?" 

The  speaker  was  a  fine  specimen  of  a  Virginia  coun- 
tryman; over  six  feet,  bony,  dark,  athletic,  but  lazy, 
good-natured,  yet  passionate,  and  clad  only  in  a  coarse 
shirt  and  still  coarser  "bluein"  pantaloons. 

"What  place  is  this?"  I  asked. 

"Brileses." 

"And  where  is  Mr.  Briles  ?' 

"Wharuvver  he  is  thar  you'll  find  me." 

"Well,  Mr.  Briles,  can  I  get  dinner?" 

"Sertney  you  kin.  We  all  done  dinner  rao'n  two 
hours,  and  I  was  jes  goin'  squrl  huntin';  but  the  leaves 
is  too  thick  yet  awhile,  and  thar's  plenty  a  time  befo' 
sundown.  I  recon  we  can  git  you  up  somethin'  or 
nuther  pretty  quick  that'll  do  to  stay  your  stummuck. 
Boy!" 

"Boy"  was  uttered  in  a  tone  calculated  to  raise  the 
dead,  and  very  soon  a  cornfield  hand  came  running  to 
take  my  horse.  Dismounting  slowly,  I  found  myself 
so  sore  from  the  trotting  I  had  undergone  that  I  could 
hardly  walk  into  the  house,  the  inside  of  which  I  will 
not  describe,  lest  it  make  this  story  too  long.  Suffice 
it  to  say,  that  it  corresponded  with  the  outside.  De- 
positing my  bran  new  saddle-bags  on  the  bench — it 
was  mighty  hard — in  the  porch,  I  sat  down  and  took 
off  my  hat  and  cravat,  the  better  to  cool  off. 

"Take  somethin',  Mister?" 

"With  great  pleasure,"  I  replied. 

"'Tain't  so  dog-goned  good,  but  you're  'bundant 
welcome  to  it.     Spos'n  I  make  you  a  julep?" 

261 


MY   VILE   BEARD 

"Very  well,"  said  I. 

A  julep  of  new  whiskey,  with  brown  sugar,  and 
without  ice  is  rather  a  hard  thing  to  worry  down,  but 
I  was  so  exhausted  that  I  really  enjoyed  it.  After  I 
had  finished  it,  I  asked  Briles:  "What  county  is 
this?" 

"Tcharlut." 

"What?" 

"Tcharlut;   the  County  uv  Tcharlut." 

"Oh!  Charlotte." 

"Yes;   Tcharlut." 

"Well,  how  far  is  it  from  here  to  the  court  house?" 

"A  little  over  twenty-one  miles — jest  twenty-one  mile 
to  a  nit's  night-cap  from  that  ar  big  white  oak  up 
yonder  at  the  forks  uv  the  road." 

"And  what  is  this  part  of  the  country  called?  Has 
it  any  particular  name?" 

"To  be  sho'.  Right  here  is  Brileses,  which  it  is  a 
presink;  but  this  here  ridge  ar  called  'Venjunce 
Ridge.'  " 

"Indeed!     Why  so?" 

"They  was  bleest  to  name  it  somethin',  I  reckon, 
and  that's  what  it  took  its  name  from." 

"Ah!  Well,  does  a  gentleman  named  Cooke  live 
anywhere  in  this  neighborhood?" 

"Thar's  old  Beazly  Cooke  keeps  a  wheelwright  shop 
up  here  about  two  miles  down  in  the  Cub  Creek  Hol- 
low." 

"He  is  not  the  man." 

"Thar's  Joneeston  Cooke,  owns  'bout  two  hundred 
niggers,  on  the  river." 

262 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

"No;   it  is  not  he." 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  with  the  most  inoffensive  im- 
pertinence. "Oh!  I  seen  your  hand  plain — two  bul- 
lets and  a  bragger — a  queen  by  the  livins!  It's  the 
ole  captain  you  mean.  I  might  a'  known  you  was 
arter  courtin  somethin'.     He's  rich  as  mornin's  milk." 

"Why,  you  don't  expect  me  to  court  him?" 

"Yes,  maybe  I  don't.  Ef  he  didn't  had  them  thou- 
sand acres  o'  low  groun's  that  ar  bridle  and  saddle 
would  nuwer  have  stopped  at  Brileses." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "if  you  will  turn  a  city  collector  into 
a  courting  man,  I  can't  help  it." 

"Pretty  decking  you'll  do,  I  jes  bet.  You'll  cleckt 
a  hundred  and  twenty  poun'  uv  lady-meat  and  about 
thirty  niggers,  or  else  you'll  cleckt  a  kicking;  one  or 
tuther,  sertin." 

All  this  was  said  in  such  an  indescribably  good- 
natured,  honest  tone,  that  I  could  not  take  offence. 
So  I  told  Briles  that  I  would  take  a  nap  until  dinner 
was  ready. 

In  what  appeared  to  me  a  half  minute,  but  was  in 
fact  half  an  hour,  I  was  awakened  by  Briles,  and  told 
that  dinner  was  on  the  table.  A  small  table,  covered 
with  a  dingy  cloth,  was  placed  in  the  middle  of  the 
dining-room,  and  thereon  I  found  chicken,  ham  and, 
eggs,  some  sweet  potatoes  and  butter-beans.  In  ad- 
dition to  these,  there  was  a  plate  of  good  butter,  a 
pitcher  of  milk,  and  three  large  hoe-cakes.  This  was 
the  dinner.  Affixed  to  the  ceiling,  just  over  the  table, 
I  perceived  one  of  those  fixtures  which  years  ago  used 
to  be  in  vogue  in  much  larger  taverns,  called,  I  believe, 

263 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

a  fan.  It  consisted  of  a  long  piece  of  red  cloth,  sus- 
pended by  mechanical  contrivances  which  I  cannot 
describe,  and  was  kept  in  motion  by  means  of  a  rope 
pulled  by  a  negro  boy,  who  stood  exactly  in  the  centre 
of  the  fire-place.  As  I  sat  down,  the  boy  began  to 
pull  the  fan  with  vigor. 

Briles  apologized  for  his  dinner.  "It's  pritty  po' 
eatin',  and  if  you  jest  had  waited  tel  supper  time,  I'd 
a  had  you  some  squrls.  We  kill  a  ram  lam'  yistiddy, 
the  finest  you  uvver  see,  fat  two  inches  thick  on  the 
ribs,  but  the  nigger  took  and  put  it  in  the  spring  house, 
thout  fastnin'  the  do,'  and  the  fust  thing  a  ole  houn' 
sneak  in  thar  and  eat  it  up  clean  to  the  bone."  Dur- 
ing these  remarks,  Briles  once  or  twice  interrupted 
himself  to  say  in  a  loud  voice,  "boy!"  to  which  the 
negro  pulling  the  fan  would  answer  "suh,"  and  pull 
the  fan  more  vigorously  than  before.  Then  Briles 
would  go  on  with  what  he  had  to  say.  But  he  was 
evidently  annoyed  about  something. 

"Of  co'se  the  dog  didn't  eat " 

"Boy!" 

"Suh." 

The  fan  fluttered  faster. 


"Didn't  eat  all  the  lam',  because " 

"Boy!" 

"Suh." 

The  fan  flapped  still  faster. 

"Because  we  all  had  done  sent  a  good  part  of  it 

away  to  vayus  neighbors " 

"Boy!" 
"Suh." 

264 


MY   VILE   BEARD 

The  fan  was  going  at  a  terrific  rate.  Briles  thun- 
dered out — 

"Boy!  don't  be  so  dam'  induschus!"  Never  was  a 
negro  so  taken  aback.  He  had  supposed  all  the  time, 
that  the  object  of  his  master  in  calling  him  was  to 
urge  him  on  in  the  work  of  keeping  off  the  flies  with 
the  fan,  and  now,  when  he  discovered  his  mistake,  I 
don't  think  the  whole  County  of  "Tcharlut"  could 
have  presented  a  more  pitiably  chop-fallen  spectacle. 
I  laughed  outright.  But  Briles  glared  at  him  savagely, 
until  I  thought  he  would  have  fallen  where  he  stood. 

When  dinner  was  over,  the  master  of  the  house  in- 
vited me  to  go  out  hunting  with  him,  a  proposition  to 
which  I  would  willingly  have  acceded,  if  I  had  not 
been  so  stiff  and  sore.  Briles  went  off.  I  lighted  my 
cigar  and  lolled  upon  the  bench  in  the  porch.  I  pass 
over  the  night  and  the  particulars  of  my  introduction 
to  Mrs.  Briles,  who  proved  to  be  both  ugly  and  quar- 
relsome— for  which  last  Briles,  very  confidingly,  ac- 
counted, by  saying  "there  nuwer  was  no  peace  in  no 
family  that  didn't  have  children." 

The  next  morning  I  found  myself  even  more  stiff  and 
sore  than  I  had  been  the  evening  previous.  Every 
joint  ached.  It  was  plain  that  I  had  to  pass  the  day 
at  Briles's.  Briles  did  his  best  to  make  my  stay  agree- 
able, but  the  constant  sharp  voice  of  Mrs.  Briles,  as 
she  scolded  the  negroes  in  the  back  yard,  and  my 
natural  impatience  to  reach  my  journey's  end,  made 
all  his  efforts  abortive. 

However,  the  second  morning  came  and  found  me, 
not  exactly  supple,  but  able  to  mount  the  trotting- 

265 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

horse  again,  and  to  endure  him  for  a  season.  I  de- 
termined to  hasten  on  immediately  after  breakfast. 
But  when  I  went  to  the  little  dingy-looking  glass  to 
brush  my  hair,  a  terrible  fact  was  revealed  to  me: 
My  beard  was  three  days  old!  Shave  I  must,  and 
that  immediately;  but  I  could  not  shave  myself.  I 
had  no  razor.  Strange  that  I  had  never  thought  of 
that  before  leaving  town.  But  somebody  must  shave 
me.  Who?  There  were  no  barbers  in  that  country; 
it  was  doubtful  whether  Briles  ever  shaved  at  all;  and 
what  to  do  I  knew  not.  The  case,  as  it  appeared  to 
me  at  this  time,  was  so  grave  that  I  find  it  impossible 
to  impart  it.  I  was  young,  was  going  to  a  highly 
respectable  house,  on  business  of  the  utmost  import- 
ance. It  was  indispensable  to  a  good  first  impression 
that  my  appearance  should  at  least  be  decent.  As 
these  reflections  crowded  upon  me,  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  return  to  town,  get  shaved,  and  bring  a  barber 
back  with  me. 

When  I  went  down  to  breakfast  I  told  Briles  of  my 
unhappy  condition.  Sympathizing  with  me,  he  said 
he  "wished  to  goodness  he  could  shave  me,  but  he 
couldn't.  He  could  trim  ha'r  tolliblv,  but  never  had 
laid  no  razor  to  no  man's  jaw  but  his  own."  After 
thinking  over  the  matter  for  some  time,  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  his  man  "Benj'min"  had  worked 
on  the  "Cunnel,"  and  may  be  he  knew  how  to  shave. 
So  Benj'min  was  called.  He  proved  to  be  a  clumsy, 
self-important  creature,  who  "'low'd  he  could  shave  a 
gent'man  good  as  any  barber."  Rather  than  ride  back 
thirty  miles  to  town,  I  consented  to  let  Benjamin  try 

2C6 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

his  hand  on  me,  upon  the  following  terms,  proposed 
by  himself: 

1.  He  didn't  want  me  to  pay  him  nuthin  no  way. 

2.  If  he  "made  the  bleed  come,"  he  "wouldn't  take 
nuthin  if  I  was  to  gin  it  to  him." 

3.  He  agreed  to  shave  me  "  two  days  under  the  skin." 

4.  If  I  had  "a  little  ole  wescut  or  hankcher,"  Ben- 
jamin would  be  a  thousand  times  "obleeged"  to  me 
for  either  of  them. 

This  contract  being  accepted  on  my  part,  Briles 
went  off  to  a  "vandue,"  and  Benjamin  went  off  after 
his  shaving  implements.  I  waited  in  moody  silence 
his  return. 

Soon  I  heard  Mrs.  Briles  quarrelling  with  Benjamin 
because  he  attempted  to  take  some  of  the  cook's  hot 
water,  and  thought  something  was  said  about  "soap," 
but  of  this  last  I  was  not  certain.  I  waited  and  waited. 
It  was  fully  an  hour  before  Benjamin  came  back.  In 
one  hand  he  held  a  tin  bucket,  such  as  negroes  use  to 
carry  their  dinner  to  the  field,  full  of  hot  water;  in  the 
other  was  a  large,  round,  dark-bay,  ugly-looking  gourd; 
and  under  his  arm  was  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  a 
leather  surcingle,  a  mop,  and  a  bowie-knife;  but  I 
was  so  mad  with  him  on  account  of  his  delay  that  I 
could  not  see  very  well.  He  came  into  the  porch, 
where  I  sat,  with  a  smile  of  intense  self-esteem  on  his 
face,  and  said  he  had  been  detained  all  this  time  by 
honing  the  razor.  I  answered  not  a  word.  Setting 
down  his  implements  on  the  bench  behind  me,  he 
stood  irresolute  for  a  time,  and  finally  went  off.  I  sat 
still  as  a  stone.     He  soon  returned  with  an  axe  and  a 

267 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

nail.  Driving  the  nail  partway  into  one  of  the  pillars 
of  the  porch,  he  bent  the  head  upward  so  as  to  form  a 
hook,  and  to  this  hook  he  attached  the  leather  surcin- 
gle (it  was  over  a  yard  long),  and  began  to  "strop" 
the  bowie-knife,  which  proved,  however,  to  be  a  razor, 
or  rather  a  cross  between  a  razor  and  a  broad-axe. 
Never  before  or  since  have  I  seen  such  an  implement. 
I  looked  on,  without  saying  a  word.  He  talked  and 
strapped,  and  strapped  and  talked.  When  he  had 
finished  strapping  his  broad-axe  (it  took  him  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  to  do  so),  he  tested  its  sharpness  by  nicking 
his  thumb-nail  and  by  splitting  a  thread  of  his  wool. 
I  kept  perfectly  quiet.  Regarding  myself  as  a  doomed 
man,  I  sat  quite  passive  and  ready  to  meet  my  fate. 
He  laid  down  his  razor  and  went  behind  me  to  get  the 
tin-bucket  and  other  things.  I  have  had  many  sen- 
sations in  my  time,  but  I  doubt  if  all  of  them  put  to- 
gether could  produce  quite  so  harrowing  a  state  of 
mind  and  body  as  I  experienced  when  that  negro  came 
forward  with  a  large  painter's  brush  (it  was  not  a 
mop),  and  a  gourd  full  of  soft  soap — this  home-made, 
greasy,  villainous  stuff.  But  I  held  my  peace.  He 
lathered  me.  Ugh!  I  shudder  when  I  think  of  it. 
But  he  did  lather  me  up  to  my  very  temples  and  down 
to  my  breast-bone.  And  such  lather!  Whew!  I 
opened  not  my  mouth.  Nay,  verily — not  in  the  pres- 
ence of  that  lather.  After  he  had  invested  my  counte- 
nance with  the  nauseous  froth,  Benjamin  gave  his 
baby  broad-axe  a  few  more  whets  on  the  surcingle,  and 
the  amputation  of  my  beard  commenced.  During  the 
first  few  strokes  I  was  agreeably  surprised,  the  broad- 

268 


MY   VILE    BEARD 

axe  seemed  to  cut  so  smoothly.  But  when  he  had 
scraped  my  jaws  pretty  thoroughly  and  got  over  to  the 
fluted  part  of  my  neck,  where  the  beard  grew  like  the 
vortex  of  a  whirlpool,  I  became  conscious  of  a  pain 
that  no  man — certainly  no  woman — ever  realized.  I 
cannot  describe  it.  It  was  like  tearing  the  skin  off  and 
sticking  of  red-hot  needles  into  the  raw  meat,  as  fast 
as  it  appeared  under  the  razor.  But  it  was  something 
more  than  this — something  more  than  the  dumb  rage 
I  felt,  added  to  this,  and  something  more  than  the  aw- 
ful odor  of  the  soft-soap  lather,  added  to  that.  Imag- 
ine it!  But,  like  a  stoic,  I  bore  it  without  a  murmur. 
Nay,  I  kept  my  fury  so  quiet  that  I  did  not  even  make 
a  comment  when  Benjamin  made  the  remark,  for 
which  I  had  been  looking:  "Dar  now!"  said  he,  "de 
blood  ar  done  come,  spite  'o  all  I  could  do.  Dis  razor 
shave  mighty  easy,  I  boun;  but  den  de  skin  on  yo' 
nake  'pear  to  be  monsus  weak,  monsus." 

The  fact  is,  the  blood  was  trickling  down  my  breast. 

As  I  made  no  answer,  Benjamin  dipped  his  paint 
brush  into  the  soap-gourd,  lathered  me  anew,  and 
kept  on  shaving. 

"I  done  shave  you  down,"  said  he,  after  awhile, 
"right  clean  and  good.  Now  I  gwine  ter  shave  you 
up.  I  'spec  when  it  go  agin  de  grain,  it  ar  mos'  likely 
to  giv  some  trouble,  but  tain'  no  use  o'  shavin'  un- 
less you  gwine  ter  do  de  thing  as  it  ought  to  be 
done." 

So  he  shaved  me  against  the  grain,  and  I  gritted  my 
teeth,  determined  to  bear  the  torture  without  a  groan, 
if  I  died  under  his  hand.     At  last  he  got  through  "shav- 

2GQ 


MY  VILE    BEARD 

ing  me  up"  and  began  running  his  finger  about  in  the 
greasy  soap-suds  on  my  throat  to  feel  which  way  the 
beard  grew,  stopping  now  and  then  to  staunch  the 
flowing  blood  with  a  towel,  and  promising  me  that  as 
soon  as  he  got  through  he  would  make  it  all  right  "by 
plarsterin'  de  beard-holes  with  a  little  sut."  In  get- 
ting at  the  before-mentioned  vortex  of  beard,  he  as- 
sumed all  sorts  of  attitudes  and  bent  my  head  and 
neck  in  all  manner  of  directions,  until  I  thought  he 
would  end  by  twisting  my  head  entirely  off.  He  got 
in  front  of  me,  behind  me,  on  my  right  side,  on  my 
left  side,  and  in  between  my  legs.  He  was  very  rough 
and  very  determined  to  fulfill  his  promise  to  shave  me 
two  days  under  the  skin.  Still  I  gritted  my  teeth  and 
let  him  keep  on  his  murderous  operation.  The  job 
was  not  an  easy  one.  I  felt  something  almost  like 
pleasure  when  he  began  to  perspire  and  to  show  anger, 
as  if  the  beard  were  a  personal  enemy  whom  he  could 
not  conquer. 

"Good  G — d  A'mighty!  what  a  beard!"  he  at  length 
exclaimed.     "It  'pear  to  grow  farst  is  you  shave  it." 

I  answered  not  a  word. 

It  is  probable  that  I  could  have  gone  through  with 
that  terrific  shaving  without  a  syllable  of  complaint, 
if  Benjamin  had  not  wounded  my  pride  as  well  as  my 
person.  Getting  to  a  little  spot  just  under  the  angle 
of  my  jaw,  where  the  beard  was  peculiarly  twisted  in 
its  growth,  he  became  fairly  puzzled.  He  did  his  best 
to  get  at  it,  but  he  could  not.  This  way  and  that,  be- 
hind me  and  before  me,  on  either  side,  every  way,  he 
tried,  but  all  in  vain.     Then  it  was  that  he  broke  out, 

270 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

in  the  most  offensive  tone  imaginable,  with  the  follow- 
ing unparalleled  proposition. 

"My  little  marster,  there's  'bout  three  or  fo'  uv  the 
outrajusist  little  hars  here  I  uvver  did  see.  I  carn't 
gether  um,  all  I  kin  do.  Couldn't  you — couldn't  you 
— a — urrah — couldn't  you  jes  stan'  on  yo'  hade  (head) 
for  a  minute  or  two,  if  you  please,  sir." 

The  words  "stan'  on  yo'  hade"  were  hardly  out  of 
his  mouth  before  he  was  lying  flat  on  his  back.  In  a 
frenzy  of  passion,  which  had  been  restrained  until  it 
could  be  restrained  no  longer,  I  knocked  him  senseless 
with  a  chair.  It  was  like  lightning,  so  quickly  and 
fiercely  was  it  done;  and  to  this  day  I  have  never  been 
able  to  tell  how  I  kept  from  killing  him  outright.  And 
this  was  the  way  I  got  shaved  in  "Tcharlut."  It  is 
enough  to  make  me  "stan'  on  my  hade"  whenever  I 
think  of  it.     The  rest  of  the  adventure  you  shall  hear. 

II 

THE  THROAT-CUT   LOVER 

I  left  Brileses'  with  a  throat  perfectly  raw  and 
bloody,  the  maddest  man  the  world  that  day  contained, 
and  in  the  worst  possible  plight  to  go  a  courting.  But 
go  I  must,  and  court  I  must.  To  return  home  would 
have  been  folly;  I  was  under  a  solemn  promise  to  be 
at  the  young  lady's  house  by  a  certain  day.  So  I  paid 
Briles  his  bill — a  very  small  one — accepted,  not  with 
the  best  grace,  his  condolence  and  his  promise  to 
thrash   Benj'min   soundly,   indignantly  rejected   Mrs. 

271 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

Briles's  proffer  to  "ease  my  misery  by  wropping  my 
throat  in  a  strip  of  fat  bacon-rine  that  would  go  round 
twice't,"  and  set  forth.  My  throat  pained  me  terribly; 
my  anger  was  high,  and  I  rode  on  as  fast  as  my  horse 
could  carry  me.  The  few  persons  I  encountered  eyed 
me  with  a  strange  look;  but  I  was  out  of  sight  before 
they  could  make  a  remark.  Crossing  the  river,  I 
entered  the  County  of  Halifax — not  without  some  awk- 
ward questions  from  the  ferryman.  Leaving  the  fer- 
tile lowlands,  I  ascended  a  low  range  of  hills,  trotted 
rapidly  along  the  ridge,  and  about  dinner  hour  found 
myself  lost.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  I  observed  the 
very  red  aspect  of  my  bosom.  My  collar  was  in  even  a 
worse  condition;  it  was  a  bloody  rag.  My  throat  was 
still  bleeding.  Dismounting  from  my  horse,  I  repaired 
to  a  marshy  spot  in  the  woods,  and  gave  my  neck  a 
good  bathing.  The  water  was  warm,  but  the  astring- 
ent property  imparted  to  it  by  the  oak  leaves  which 
had  fallen  made  it  act  like  a  charm.  It  staunched  the 
blood  completely,  and,  though  it  burnt  me  severely  at 
first,  produced  the  most  soothing  and  grateful  after- 
effect. Feeling  much  relieved,  I  sat  down  on  the  root 
of  a  tree,  and  wiped  my  neck  as  well  as  I  could  with 
my  handkerchief.  I  then  concluded  that  the  best 
thing,  nay,  the  indispensable  thing,  for  me  to  do,  was 
to  divest  myself  of  my  sanguineous  under-garment, 
and  put  on  a  clean  one.  Accordingly,  I  went  for  my 
saddle-bags,  brought  them  into  the  woods,  about  twenty- 
feet  or  more  from  the  road,  opened  them,  pulled  out 
a — a — a  nicely  ironed  a — urah,  and  proceeded  to  make 
a  sylvan  toilette.     Meanwhile,  I  became  exceedingly 

272 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

hungry.  To  stay  my  hunger,  I  lit  a  cigar.  My  gar- 
ment was  just  on,  but  not  a  single  button  buttoned, 
when  a  negro  boy  came  riding  by  on  a  mule,  I  called 
to  him  to  stop.  He  did  so;  looked  around,  but  saw 
nobody.  I  told  him  to  wait  a  minute  until  I  could  get 
ready.  Though  he  could  not  see  me,  I  could  see  him 
very  plainly;  and  as  he  was  evidently  a  little  frightened, 
I  thought  it  advisable  to  go  up  to  him,  and  ask  him  to 
tell  me  the  way  to  the  place  I  was  going.  Out  I 
walked,  accoutred  as  I  was,  white  above  and  dark 
below — my  pantaloons  being  dark  grey — and  cigar  in 
mouth. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  me,  he  turned  to  run,  but,  on 
second  thought  held  his  ground.  But  the  moment  I 
got  close  to  him,  he  bounced  off  the  mule  and  ran 
through  the  woods,  bawling  as  hard  as  he  could.  Of 
course  I  ran  after  him.  It  would  never  do  to  let  slip 
the  only  chance  I  had  of  ascertaining  my  whereabouts. 
The  little  devil  ran  like  a  deer;  but  after  a  hard  chase 
I  overtook  him  and  collared  him.  The  moment  I 
laid  my  hands  on  him,  he  made  the  woods  ring  with 
piercing  screams,  and  in  a  very  short  time  I  was  sur- 
rounded by  half  a  dozen  rough,  powerful  white  men, 
one  of  whom,  armed  with  a  sledge-hammer,  threatened 
to  "bust  my  derned  head  open  ef  I  didn't  let  that  ar 
boy  go." 

It  turned  out  that  the  spot  where  I  caught  the  boy 
was  but  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  interesting  vil- 
lage, or  blacksmith's  shop,  of  "Madison's  Cross 
Roads,"  and  that  the  amiable  gentlemen  who  sur- 
rounded me  comprised  a  large  majority  of  its  popula- 

273 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

tion.  I  explained  to  them  at  once  the  reason  why  I 
had  run  after  the  boy,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  tell 
them  about  my  getting  shaved  in  Charlotte,  thus  ac- 
counting for  the  very  suspicious  appearance  of  my 
throat  and  the  singularity  of  my  costume.  Some  of 
them  looked  as  if  they  believed  me;  others  did  not. 
I  overheard  one  fellow  whisper  to  his  friend: 

"That  man's  bin  hung.  Don't  you  see  his  neck? 
He  needn't  tell  me  nothing  'bout  his  gittin'  shaved  at 
Briles's.     Briles's  Ben  kin  shave  good  as  anybody. 

"  I  think  I  heerd  thar  was  a  man  hung  last  Friday  in 
Pittsylvany,  and  that  ar  is  the  man  to  a  dead  moral 
certainty." 

"I  don't  like  his  looks,  neither,"  was  the  reply. 
"But  if  a  man's  bin  hung  wunst,  you  can't  hang  him 
nar  a'nuther  time  for  the  same  offenst.  Its  agin  the 
law.  But  what  was  he  a  doing  to  Bruce's  Jim  ?  He 
couldn't  a  wanted  to  kill  the  nigger;  reck'n  he  could?" 

"Dunno,"  said  the  first  speaker.  "He's  got  the 
worst  face  I  uwer  see  on  top  of  any  man.  He  ain't 
too  good  to  commit  murder  jest  to  keep  his  hand  in." 

While  this  agreeable  conversation  was  going  on,  I 
busied  myself  in  buttoning  up  my  apparel  and  making 
myself  as  decent  as  I  could.  By  the  time  I  got  through 
the  citizens  of  Madison's  Cross  Roads  drew  off  a  little 
way,  as  if  to  consult  what  was  best  to  be  done  with 
me.  I  awaited  patiently  their  decision.  The  spokes- 
man came  forward  and  said: 

"Mister,  you  tell  a  mighty  straight  sort  of  story, 
but  you've  got  a  kind  uv  count'nance  that  none  uv  we 
all  don't  like.     I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelins,  but 

274 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

the  sooner  you  git  away  from  Madison's  Cross  Roads 
the  better.  You  say  you're  going  down  to  Squire 
Cookses.  Well,  you  ken  jes  go  'long.  But  I'm  a 
coming  thar  soon  to-morrow  morning,  and  ef  your 
story  ain't  crobborated  by  facts,  I'm  gwine  to  take  you 
up,  according  to  law." 

They  all  turned  and  walked  off,  taking  Bruce's  Jim 
with  them.  I  laughed  and  went  to  my  saddlebags, 
finished  dressing,  mounted  my  steed  and  started  off 
quite  gaily,  both  pain  and  hunger  having  disappeared 
under  the  excitement  of  my  amusing  interview  with 
the  fierce  Madison's  Cross  Roaders.  Unfortunately, 
the  only  information  I  had  been  able  to  get  in  regard 
to  the  locality  of  Squire  Cooke's,  was  to  the  effect  that 
it  was  "a  right  sharp  ways  down  the  road,  jinin'  John 
Thompson's  land,  after  you  get  over  the  creek."  As 
I  rode  on,  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  to  tie  my  handkerchief  around  my  neck,  which 
began  to  feel  sore  again,  and  to  bleed  a  little.  This  I 
did,  and  felt  the  better  for  it.  But  now  my  hunger 
returned  with  great  violence.  I  got  down  from  my 
horse,  and  ate  a  few  chestnuts  that  I  found  under  the 
leaves;  but  these  served  only  to  make  me  still  hun- 
grier. I  again  mounted  and  rode  forward.  Emerging 
at  length  from  the  seemingly  interminable  woods,  I 
beheld,  to  my  great  joy,  an  apple  orchard,  sure  sign  of 
a  house  in  the  neighborhood,  though  none  was  in 
view.  A  fine  tree,  loaded  with  big  red  apples,  was  not 
far  from  the  fence,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  I  had  a 
dozen  in  my  hands  and  my  pockets,  and  was  sitting  on 
the  fence  eating  them  with  great  relish.     Up  came  a 

275 


MY   VILE    BEARD 

shabbily-dressed  old  fellow,  riding  a  sorrel  mare,  with 
awkward  colt  behind  her.  Thinking  him  some  third- 
rate  farmer,  I  hailed  him  in  a  free  and  easy  manner,  and 
asked  him  how  far  it  was  to  old  Squire  Cooke's.  He 
replied  stiffly,  that  it  was  but  a  short  distance.  I 
told  him  that  I  was  on  the  way  to  the  squire's  house, 
and  as  I  had  already  lost  myself  twice,  I  would  be 
obliged  to  him  it  he  would  show  me  the  exact  place. 

The  old  fellow  bestowed  a  suspicious  glance  upon 
me,  wrinkled  his  shaggy  eye-brows,  in  token  of  satis- 
faction or  the  reverse,  and  said: 

"If  you  will  follow  me,  I  will  show  you  the  house." 

You  guess  the  sequel,  O  reader.  The  old  fellow 
was  Squire  Cooke  himself. 

I  spare  you  the  recital  of  my  inward  pangs  and  con- 
fused apologies  when  the  awkward  discovery  was 
made.  One  thing  I  congratulated  myself  upon,  viz.: 
that  I  had  not  (as  I  was  in  an  ace  of  doing  several 
times)  asked  the  old  fellow  if  Squire  Cooke  was  as  well 
off  as  people  said  he  was,  and  whether  he  was  a  skin- 
flint, as  I  had  heard. 

My  reception  by  Mrs.  Cooke  was  kind,  by  her 
daughter  cordial.  The  squire  kept  very  grim.  At 
dinner  we  had  corn-pudding,  late  in  the  year  as  it  was. 
Like  a  fool,  I  said  nothing  to  account  for  the  alarming 
appearance  of  my  throat,  which  was  fully  exposed  to 
view,  owing  to  the  fact  that  it  was  so  sore  outside  that 
the  bare  idea  of  tying  a  cravat  tightly  around  it,  to  hide 
it,  was  agonizing.  The  old  lady,  obliged  to  talk  to 
me,  always  took  care  to  let  her  eyes  fall  below  the 
level   of  my  hair,  which  was  not  pretty  hair.     My 

276 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

inamorata  looked  cold.  The  hideous  redness  of  my 
throat  had  begun  to  tell  on  her.  I  felt  uneasy.  The 
servants  gazed  at  me  very  much.  Pater  familias  ate 
a  great  deal  and  said  nothing.  My  face  began  to  get 
as  red  as  my  throat.  In  this  pleasant  state  of  bash- 
fulness,  and  while  I  was  in  the  act  of  carrying  the 
first  forkful  of  corn-pudding  to  my  mouth,  the  old 
gentleman  addressed  me  a  question.  You  know  how 
corn-pudding  retains  its  heat?  I  knew  it  too,  but  in 
my  confusion  forgot  it.  So  when  the  old  gentleman 
suddenly  spoke  to  me,  pop!  the  burning  mass  of  corn- 
pudding  slipped  off  my  fork,  fell  down  my  loose  collar, 
and  lodged  exactly  where  my  throat  was  rawest!! 
Don't  ask  what  I  did.  Hah!  but  it  was  hot!  If  I 
didn't  hear  things  fizz  under  the  corn-pudding,  I  felt 
them.  I  did  not  sit  still.  I  did  not  keep  quiet.  I 
did  not  display  any  heroism.  I  don't  know  precisely 
how  I  acted.  Think  I  howled.  Expect  I  danced 
round  the  room.  Believe  I  swore.  Remember  I  cried. 
The  pain  was  mighty  bad.  The  chagrin  was  worse. 
Know  I  cared  nothing  for  the  dignity  of  manhood. 
Know  I  tore  open  my  collar,  my  bosom,  my  vest,  and 
snatched  out  the  pudding,  as  much  as  I  could  get  of  it. 
It  burnt  my  fingers,  and  I  slung  it  off,  little  caring  where 
it  went.  Think  it  spattered  the  old  gentleman's  face. 
You  are  correct  in  saying  that  I  ought  not  to  have  for- 
gotten that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  my  sweetheart, 
and  ought  to  have  borne  the  pain  with  a  smiling 
visage.  I  dare  say.  Yes,  I  ought  to  have  been  very 
smiling.  But  what  is  a  sweetheart  to  a  man  with  an 
ounce  of  corn-pudding  frying  away  on  his  raw  throat  ? 

277 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

Answer  me  that.  Everything  was  done  for  me  that 
could  be  done,  and  in  process  of  time  I  became  as 
easy  as  a  man  could  well  be  under  the  circumstances. 
But  I  felt  small  inclination  to  make  love  to  Miss 
Cooke.  Nor  did  Miss  Cooke  seem  to  expect  it.  She 
played  on  the  piano,  talked  about  trifles,  and  was  alto- 
gether too  condoling.  I  discovered  a  number  of  de- 
fects in  her  character.  She  seemed  fond  of  alluding 
to  painful  subjects.  She  lacked  genuine  feeling  for 
the  afflicted.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  hypocrisy  in 
her  amiable  nature.     I  was  glad  when  bedtime  came. 

Slept  badly.  Throat  hurt  me.  About  day,  fell  into 
an  uneasy  doze,  from  which  I  was  awakened  by  a 
noise  in  the  yard.  My  friends  of  Madison's  Cross 
Road  had  come  to  arrest  me,  as  a  man  who  had  im- 
pertinently escaped  from  the  gallows,  and  tried  to  kill 
or  kidnap  one  of  Bruce's  negroes.  Fortunately,  the 
squire  was  a  magistrate,  and  after  hearing  the  evidence 
of  his  daughter,  summoned  into  the  parlor  before  sun- 
rise as  a  witness,  dismissed  the  case,  and  sent  the 
Madison's  Cross  Roaders  home,  grumbling  and  dis- 
satisfied.    They  wanted  my  blood;    that  was  plain. 

My  trial  did  not  improve  my  position  as  a  suitor  in 
the  eyes  of  any  of  the  family,  and  I  knew  it.  My 
hopes  were  scattered  to  the  winds.  At  breakfast,  un- 
able to  eat  any  solid  food,  I  swallowed  my  coffee  in 
solemn  silence,  and  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  ended, 
went  forth  to  look  after  my  horse.  Outside  of  the  stable 
I  heard  two  negroes  talking.     One  of  them  stuttered: 

"D-d-d-dat  ar  man  come  cotin'  Miss  Sally — he — 
he  ain't  n-n-nothing  but  a  tackey." 

278 


MY  VILE   BEARD 

"Hoccum  he  ain't?  He  got  good  hoss  and  bridle 
is  anybody,  don't  keer  whar  they  come  from." 

"He  d-d-don't  war  no  strops  to  his  britchis.' 

"  But  he  got  money— I  seen  it!  "  replied  my  defender. 

"  An-an-an  he  don't  war  no  gallowses." 

"  Huccum  he  don't  war  no  gallowses!  How  you 
know,  I  reckon!" 

"Didn't  I — I — I  see  him  d-d-dis  morning,  when  dey 
c-c-come  to  try  him  f-f-fore  he  dress?" 

"Well,  if  you  sho'  he  don't  war  no  gallowses — ef 
you  sho' — den  de  sooner  he  clear  out  from  here  de 
better.  I  don't  wants  to  b'long  to  no  man  whar  don't 
war  gallowses,  cause  I  nuvver  see  no  gent'man  but 
what  he  war'd  gallowses — a  par  uv  um.  Evin  a  ove'- 
seer,  he  war  one.  'Spectable  people  nuvver  fastens 
their  britchis  with  a  buckle  and  tongue,  like  a  gearth, 
and  Miss  Sally  ain't  gwine  hav  him,  ef  you  heer  my 
racket." 

This  was  enough  for  me.  Two  hours  afterward  I 
left  Squire  Cooke's.  Never  returned  there — and  never 
will — not  if  I  had  a  million  "par  uv  gallowses." 


279 


XII 
A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS 


ONE  must  be  a  bachelor  of  five  and  thirty,  and 
often  sick  in  his  solitary  room,  to  appreciate  fully 
the  comfort,  and  in  fact  the  pleasure,  of  being  sick  as 
a  married  man.  Many  pleasant  sicknesses  have  I  had 
since  my  marriage,  but  the  happiest  of  them  all  was 
one  of  the  longest  of  them  all — a  six  weeks  attack  of 
catarrh  at  Lichfield,  in  Orange  County.  During  the 
paroxysms  of  coughing  I  suffered  a  good  deal;  at 
other  times  I  was  comparatively  free  of  pain,  and  able 
to  read  and  scribble  at  will.  My  good  wife  brought 
me  my  meals  to  a  nice  little  upstairs  room,  warmed 
by  a  cosy  wood  fire.  Without,  all  was  cold  and  cheer- 
less; within,  all  was  sweet  quietude  and  peace.  The 
world  with  its  sinfulness  and  its  cares  was  far  removed 
from  me.  I  wanted  never  to  go  back  to  it  again,  and 
would  fain  have  been  an  invalid  all  my  days  rather 
than  encounter  the  temptations  and  troubles  of  life 
again.  I  look  back  upon  that  sickness  as  a  glimpse, 
all  too  brief,  of  heaven.  Dr.  Edmond  Taliaferro 
attended  me.  His  visits  were  not  numerous,  but 
enough  to  impress  indelibly  upon  my  memory  his 
quick  bright  eye,  his  perfect  healthfulness  ("sound  as 
a  nut"  is  truer  of  him  than  of  any  man  I  ever  knew), 

280 


A   PIECE   ABOUT   DOCTORS 

and  his  excellence  as  a  man  and  a  physician.  How 
much  good  that  admirable  little  man  has  done,  and 
how  poorly  paid  he  has  often  been,  there  is  no  telling. 
From  the  bed  in  which  I  now  lie  I  send  him  greeting, 
God-speed  and  a  thousand  kind  wishes. 

And  what  shall  I  say  about  that  dear  old  doctor 
whose  picture  in  my  photograph  album  I  looked  at  but 
yesterday,  recalling  the  while  the  sad,  happy  memories 
of  Middleburg?  Hale  and  hearty,  the  picture  of 
strength,  able  to  buffet  all  the  mountain  storms  that 
come,  his  joyous  laugh  comes  to  me  over  the  years 
that  have  lapsed  since  we  parted,  and  I  can  see  him 
plainly  in  his  front  porch,  with  his  grandchildren  play- 
ing around  him.  He  and  his  wife  were  with  us  that 
night  when  God  called  away  the  little  boy  who  was 
the  delight,  the  splendor  and  the  hope  of  our  lives,  and 
he  was  with  us  that  bright  July  morning  when  God 
sent  us  another  son,  "the  sweetest  boy  in  the  world," 
as  I  called  him  in  his  babyhood,  and  often  call  him 
now,  albeit  he  is  six  years  old  and  over.  This  pulse 
in  my  wrist  must  be  beating  very  slowly  when  I  cease 
to  remember  with  admiration  and  affection  "Uncle 
William"  and  "Aunt  Kate."  Heaven  send  them  a 
sweet  sunset  before  the  cloudless  morning  that  awaits 
them  hereafter. 

Ah!  Doctor,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  would  like.  I  would 
like  to  present  you  with  a  golden  backgammon  box 
and  a  set  of  diamond  men,  and  allow  you  to  beat  me 
one — just  one — time  in  your  life.  It  would  make  you 
so  happy. 

In  "Abraham  Page"  or  "What  I  know  about  Ben 

281 


A   PIECE   ABOUT   DOCTORS 

Eccles,"  I  forget  which,  there  is  the  finest  tribute  to 
the  country  doctor  that  I  have  seen  in  any  language. 
But  how  is  it  that  the  theme  never  awakened  the 
muse  of  Goldsmith  or  Shenstone  or  the  pencil  of  a 
genre  artist  of  the  first  order.  The  rusty  long-tailed 
overcoat  tucked  well  under  the  legs,  the  tall  napless 
hat  drawn  down  over  the  eyes,  the  ears  protected  by  a 
comfort  of  a  fiery  red  from  cold,  the  beard  white  with 
snow  or  sleet,  the  compressed  lips,  the  yellow  leggings 
tied  with  green  list,  the  thick  yarn  socks,  knitted  by 
some  grateful  hand,  covering  the  boots,  the  gray  sad- 
dle-blanket peeping  out  from  under  the  sheepskin 
covered  saddle,  the  black,  medical  saddle-bags,  slick 
with  long  using,  the  faithful  horse  plodding  through 
frozen  mire  or  plashing  through  the  puddles  and 
brooks — here  are  the  elements  for  a  dark  winter  day 
— but  better  still,  these  same  figures  of  horse  and  rider 
dimly  describe  through  the  thick  darkness  of  the  winter's 
night,  when  the  fierce  icy  gusts  are  pouring  through 
the  mountain  passes,  bending  the  naked  trees  by  the 
roadside,  and  almost  beating  down  the  gray-haired 
rider,  who  must  trust  to  his  sure-footed  steed;  for  who 
can  see  the  way  on  such  a  night  in  the  midst  of  such  a 
storm?  And  then  the  entrance  of  the  doctor  into  the 
sick  chamber  lighted  up  by  the  log  fire,  the  sick  woman 
in  the  old-fashioned  bed  with  valence  and  teaster  turn- 
ing her  hollow  eyes  to  him  with  an  ineffable  look  of 
gladness  and  of  hope. 

What  must  be  the  thought  of  the  good  old  doctor 
as  he  passes  in  through  the  tempest  and  the  horror  of 
thick  darkness,  often  unattended  and  alone,  oftener 

282 


A   PIECE   ABOUT   DOCTORS 

still  knowing  that  he  can  never  be  paid  even  a  pittance 
for  all  he  is  braving  and  enduring!  Memories  of  his 
student-life  come  to  him,  and  of  his  early  triumphs 
and  failures  in  practice,  of  his  first  married  days,  of 
his  own  sick  child  left  at  home,  and  of  the  cozy  cham- 
ber where  his  wife  awaits  his  uncertain  coming.  De- 
spite the  rushing  blast  and  the  roaring  mountain  tor- 
rent he  is  fording,  there  come  to  him  the  cries  of  infants 
he  has  ushered  into  this  world  of  pain,  the  last  long 
suspiration  and  the  wide  ghastly  yawn  of  the  dying, 
the  shrieks  of  bereaved  women,  and  the  suppressed 
tumultuous  sob  of  stricken  men — these  come  to  him 
as  he  courageously  breasts  biting  wind  and  freezing 
rain  to  reach  his  patient.  In  the  cold  gray  dawn,  his 
mission  ended  and  the  sufferer  relieved,  he  sallies 
forth.  The  winds  are  still,  the  wide  expanse  of  snow, 
unbroken  yet  by  hoof  or  foot,  stretches  over  the  miles, 
no  longer  long,  that  lie  between  him  and  his  home. 
As  he  beats  onward  the  first  smoke  rises  from  the 
peaceful  homesteads,  and  he  hurries  along  to  get  his 
bright  welcome  and  his  wife's  kiss,  to  snatch  a  break- 
fast and  again  to  mount  his  horse  and  plod  his  daily 
round  through  snow  and  slush.  And  this  is  life  to  the 
country  doctor  and  his  fellows. 

Brave  hearts,  noble  gentlemen,  benefactors  seldom 
fully  requited,  in  my  summer  trips  away  from  the  city  I 
never  pass  one  of  you  without  an  inward  bowing  of 
the  head  in  reverence  and  the  uttering  of  a  silent  bene- 
diction upon  you.  Ye  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and 
your  reward  is  assured  in  the  bright  hereafter. 

Of  late  years  our  physician  has  been  a  sort  of  Quin- 

283 


A   PIECE   ABOUT  DOCTORS 

bus  Flestrin,  or  man-mountain,  who  has  done  so  much 
for  me  and  mine  that  it  would  be  a  relief  to  me  to  abuse 
him  violently.  It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  a  weakling 
like  myself  to  look  with  complacency  upon  any  man 
who  is  heaped  up  and  running  over  with  health.  The 
Egyptians  wrapped  their  dead  in  endless  windings  of 
cloth,  but  nature  has  bandaged  Dr.  Coleman  with  such 
great  ropes  and  coils  of  bodily  well-being  that  he  may 
be  regarded  as  a  real  mummy  of  health.  Disease 
might  feel  for  his  vitals  for  a  century  to  no  purpose, 
and  I  should  think  that  Death  himself,  after  leveling 
his  spear  at  him,  would  take  a  second  look,  and  saying, 
"It's  no  use;  that  fellow  is  too  thickly  health-plated," 
pass  on  to  the  other  side.  Twice  a  day  for  many  long 
months  have  I  seen  that  strong  Roman  head  enter  my 
doorway,  and  once  a  day  for  weeks  has  he,  on  other 
occasions,  visited  me  or  my  children.  His  ponderous 
tread  and  his  portentous  door-slam  are  familiar  to  us 
all.  I  should  like  to  praise  his  skill,  to  tell  about  his 
art  of  winning  the  love  of  women  and  children,  and 
the  charm  of  his  strong  presence  in  the  sick  room, 
but  may  not  trust  myself.  He  has  just  delivered  me 
from  the  pangs  of  diphtheria,  and  I  might  overdo  the 
thing.  Fain  would  I  hope  that  I  have  done  with  him 
for  a  good  long  while  at  least;  but  I  suspect  that  it 
will  be  another  case  of  Michael  and  the  dragon  con- 
tending for  the  body  of  Moses,  and  that,  after  a  suffi- 
cient number  of  brilliant  victories,  the  dragon  will  at 
last  get  the  better  of  Michael  Coleman.* 

*  Alas!  the  patient  and  the  physician  were  but  a  short  time 
parted.     Dr.  Coleman  was  himself  declining  when  he  ministered 

284 


A   PIECE   ABOUT   DOCTORS 

City  physicians  undergo  less  hardships  and  fatigue, 
but  are  subject  oftentimes  to  a  heavier  weight  of  re- 
sponsibility, than  most  of  their  country  brethren. 
True,  they  have  more  and  better  appliances,  and  can 
generally  call  in  consultation  when  needed  more  ability 
than  the  country  doctor  has  at  command;  but  en- 
demics and  epidemics  sweep  over  the  cities  more  often 
than  the  country,  the  ghastlier  forms  of  schirrus  and 
fungus  are  more  prevalent  there,  and  men  of  the  great- 
est distinction,  flocking  to  the  cities,  have  more  fre- 
quently to  be  treated.  Moreover,  the  city  physician  is 
much  more  critically  and  jealously  watched  than  his 
country  brother.  On  the  other  hand,  the  latter  has 
too  often  to  rely  wholly  on  himself  in  cases  of  the  great- 
est emergency,  as  in  accouchments  and  capital  cases 
of  surgery.  But  I  will  not  pretend  to  strike  the  bal- 
ance between  them.  God  knows  that  both  classes 
have  a  hard  enough  time.  For  nothing  in  this  world 
would  I  undertake  the  labor  or  responsibility  of  either 
of  them.  Fact  is,  I  couldn't;  it  is  not  in  me,  or  any- 
where about  me. 

To  country  and  to  city  doctors  I  owe  more  than  I 
can  ever  repay.  I  think  that  in  this  world  it  happens 
not  seldom  that  they  who  would  be  princes  in  gener- 
osity, and  give  and  give  forever,  are  not  only  debarred 
from  giving,  but  are  doomed  forever  to  receive;  and 
I  believe  that  in  the  great  book  of  the  recording  angel 
there  are  pages  upon  pages  filled  with  the  credits  of 

to  the  sufferer  in  his  final  illness,  and  three  months  after  the  last 
sad  scene  of  Dr.  Bagby's  life,  he  too  was  taken,  and  left  a  city 
in  tears. 

285 


A   PIECE   ABOUT   DOCTORS 

gratitude  which  found  no  voice  for  very  shame  of  mere 
words  of  requital,  and  because  the  fitting  deed  could 
not  go  hand  in  hand  with  the  warm  will  welling  up 
from  a  profoundly  thankful  heart. 

Ah!  gentlemen,  had  I  my  way  there  would  not  be 
wanting  some  large  silver  watches  and  some  moder- 
ately high-priced  snuff-boxes  for  a  good  many  of  you. 
But  in  earnest,  if  I  were  a  millionaire,  I  do  not  believe 
that  all  the  stinginess  incident  to  that  affliction  could 
keep  me  from  setting  rich  men  an  example  of  honor 
done  to  those  that  richly  deserve  to  be  honored.  Car- 
rington  should  clear  for  me  the  most  spacious  room  in 
the  exchange.  It  should  be  most  beautifully  and  be- 
comingly decorated.  There  would  I  gather  the  bright- 
est men  and  the  loveliest  women  in  the  land,  and  mv 
doctors  from  far  and  near  should  be  there.  At  a  fit- 
ting hour  I  would  command  the  peace,  and  then  some 
silver-tongued  Keiley  or  Stringfellow,  gifted  in  speech, 
should  say  the  splendid  words  that  ought  to  be  said 
in  praise  of  your  noble  profession.  Then  the  sweetest 
girl  in  all  Virginia — a  doctor's  daughter  most  likely — 
should  in  the  eyes  of  that  brilliant  assembly  pin  to  your 
lapels  the  badge  (newly  instituted  by  myself)  of  the 
Knightly  Order  of  the  Golden  Pill.  No,  I  do  but  jest. 
She  should  decorate  you  with  the  cross  of  the  Legion 
of  True  Honor,  in  that  it  would  be  given,  not  to  the 
slayers,  but  to  the  savers  of  mankind.  And  then,  oh 
then,  there  should  be  a  supper,  such  a  supper — a  supper 
of  the  gods,  an  Olympian  feast  compounded  for  the 
special  delectation  of  doctors,  from  which  not  one  of 
you  should  rise  till  he  felt  too  rich  to  accept  a  cent 

286 


A   PIECE   ABOUT   DOCTORS 

from  A.  T.  Stewart  or  Wm.  B.  Astor.  And  then  I 
would  consider  myself  moderately  even  with  a  few  of 
you. 

However  ill-paid  and  often  unpaid  physicians  may 
be,  they  have  the  consolation  of  knowing  that  emi- 
nence and  success  in  almost  every  other  calling  and 
profession  is  a  selfish  success  limited  in  its  good  effects 
to  the  man  and  his  immediate  family;  whereas  in 
medicine  great  success  is  based,  necessarily,  upon 
great  and  wide-spread  beneficence.  To  even  moder- 
ately distinguished  medical  men,  indeed  to  all  but  the 
very  meanest  and  most  worthless  doctors,  there  must 
come  thrills  of  pleasure  so  supreme  that  only  the  min- 
ister of  the  gospel  who  feels  that  he  has  been  the  in- 
strument of  saving  a  soul  can  hope  to  taste  a  pleasure 
at  all  comparable  with  it. 

Faithful  keepers  of  the  great  seal  of  family  secrets, 
trusty  wardens  of  the  ineffably  precious  health  of  our 
loved  ones,  silent  and  pitying  witnesses  of  human  suf- 
fering and  human  weakness,  who  shall  rightly  tell 
your  worth,  and  with  what  patent  of  nobility  shall  ye 
be  fitly  honored!  Statistics  show  that,  man  for  man, 
your  profession  has  fewer  culprits  than  any  other  what- 
soever. The  simple  figures,  unfeeling  and  unflatter- 
ing, bear  testimony  to  the  lofty  virtue  of  your  calling. 
It  is  the  hope  of  humanity,  and  there  is  reason  for  the 
hope,  that  the  day  will  come  when  there  shall  be  no 
more  great  lawyers,  for  there  shall  be  no  more  litiga- 
tion; when  there  shall  be  no  great  warriors,  because 
wars  shall  have  ceased;  and  when  even  the  need  for 
great  statesmen  shall  have  passed,  since  mankind  will 

287 


A   PIECE   ABOUT   DOCTORS 

have  outlived  the  infirmities  that  demand  legislative 
correction  or  restraint.  But  that  day  can  never  come 
on  this  earth  when  men  will  not  die.  A  healthy  race, 
obedient  to  the  laws  of  right  living,  will  require  few 
doctors  (doctors  truly,  that  their  chief  functions  will 
then  be  the  teaching  of  sanitary  principles,  and  the 
mode  of  life  demanded  for  the  highest  physical  devel- 
opment); but  these  few  will  be  crowned  with  the 
laurel  that  once  rested  only  upon  the  brow  of  the  sol- 
dier, and  with  the  bays  that  were  reserved  solely  for 
the  jurist  and  the  statesman. 

The  mind  makes  many  pictures,  and  this  is  one  that 
often  delights  me.  In  the  realm  where  there  will  be 
no  use  for  doctors,  but  where  many  doctors  shall  be, 
it  shall  come  to  pass  that  beside  the  river  of  living 
waters,  and  under  the  trees  whose  leaves  are  for  the 
healing  of  the  nations,  each  upon  his  little  knoll  of 
emerald  sward,  the  good  doctors  of  this  world  shall 
be  seated.  Celestial  airs,  borne  from  the  trembling 
wires  of  harps  attuned  to  praise  the  Great  Physician, 
and  mingled  with  the  divine  odors  of  amaranth  and 
asphodel,  shall  pass  by  on  the  soft,  pulsing  breeze. 
And  around  each  doctor  shall  be  the  host,  small  or 
great  as  the  case  may  be,  of  them  to  whom  he  minist- 
ered on  earth.  They  shall  press  forward  with  lips  no 
longer  dumb,  with  hands  no  longer  afraid  to  tell  by 
their  clasp  what  even  the  lips  might  not  like  to  say, 
and  with  eyes  blazing  full  and  warm  from  the  unmasked 
soul.  And  from  lips  and  hands  and  eyes  shall  come 
measureless  requital.  And  the  little  ones,  the  little 
ones  whose  first  wail  and  whose  last  sigh  the  good 

288 


A   PIECE   ABOUT   DOCTORS 

doctors  heard,  they  shall  come  with  purest  kisses  and 
cherubic  palms,  with  such  sweet  thanks  and  caressing 
as  only  the  always-angels  know.  And  then — the  pic- 
ture falls  softly  and  slowly  away. 


289 


XIII 
THE  PAWNEE  WAR 

A   REMINISCENCE 

TN  the  southwestern  corner  of  the  Capital  Square 
-*-  there  is  a  truncated  brick  tower,  modelled  appa- 
rently after  the  design  of  the  Tower  of  Babel,  as  con- 
ceived by  the  artists  who  illustrate  Sunday-school 
books,  except  that  the  sides  of  the  superimposed  layers 
do  not  slope,  but  run  vertically  up  a  distance  of  ten  or 
fifteen  feet,  when  they  are  suddenly  contracted,  and 
another  layer  of  lesser  diameter  begins.  Not  above 
forty  feet  rises  this  humble  and  ugly  structure.  On 
the  top  of  it  there  is  a  homely  wooden  belfry,  and  in 
that  belfry  a  large  bell  hangs.  In  peace  times  this  bell 
struck  the  hours  of  the  day  and  night,  gave  the  alarm 
of  fire,  and  called  the  truant  "Alligators"*  from  their 

*  For  many  years  the  members  of  the  Virginia  House  of  Dele- 
gates were  nicknamed  "Alligators."  The  origin  of  the  term  is 
said  to  be  this:  An  uncouth,  roughly  dressed  Dutchman  one  day 
attempted  to  make  his  way  into  the  hall,  but  was  met  by  the 
doorkeeper  with  the  query,  "What  do  you  want?"  I  vants  to 
go  in  dere."  "Whom  do  you  want  to  see?"  " I  don't  vants  to 
see  nobody;  I  vants  to  go  in."  "You  can't  go  in,  sir;  the 
House  is  in  session,  and  it  is  against  the  rules.  If  you  want  to 
see  any  member  I  will  call  him  out."  "I  vants  to  go  in,  "per- 
sisted the  Dutchman.  "I  tell  you  again,  you  can't  go  in,"  re- 
torted the  doorkeeper  angrily.     "But  I  ish  a  Alligator."     "A 

290 


THE    PAWNEE    WAR 


haunts  in  the  barrooms  and  faro-banks  when  there 
was  a  close  vote  in  the  General  Assembly — once  the 
House  of  Burgesses — or  important  public  business  to 
be  dispatched.  On  rare  occasions,  such  as  the  John 
Brown  excitement,  the  bell  summoned  the  military 
population  of  the  city  to  arms. 

A  room  in  the  lower  part  of  the  little  brick  tower  was 
used  as  a  guard-house,  as  well  for  the  policemen  of 
Mayor  Mayo   (whose  business  was  that  precisely  of 
other  policemen)  as  for  a  squad  of  the  State  Guard, 
who  acted  as  sentries  about  the  capitol  and  watched 
over  the  penitentiary  convicts  employed  in  grading  the 
walks,  and  ornamenting  and  improving  the  grass-plots, 
shrubbery,    and    trees    that   adorn    the   square.     The 
State  Guard  would  cry  very  small  in  comparison  with 
the    Coldstreams,    or    the     Garde    Imperiale.     They 
numbered  less  than  a  hundred  men;    but  they  were 
well  organized,  drilled,  and  equipped,  and  commanded 
by  a  very  competent  officer  in  the  person  of  Captain 
Dimmock,  formerly  of  the  United  States  Army.     This 
single   company  of  infantry  contained  every  regular 
soldier  Virginia  had  at  her  command  when,  true  to 
her  motto,  Sic  Semper  Tijrannis,  she  raised  her  spear 
against  the  despot  lately  enthroned  in  Washington. 
About  one  o'clock,  p.  m.,  on  the  Sunday  succeeding 

what  "  cried  the  puzzled  doorkeeper.  "  I  ish  a  Alligator  mine- 
self."  The  doorkeeper  stared  in  amazement.  "What  did  you 
say— a  Alligator  "  "  Yaw,"  roared  the  now  excited  Dutchman; 
"  I  ish  one  o'  dem  Alligators  from  the  Kounty  of  Wit!  "  A  light 
dawned  on  the  doorkeeper's  mind.  "Now  I  understand  you," 
he  exclaimed;  "you  are  a  delegate  from  the  county  of  Wythe. 
Walk  in,  sir."  Ever  since  the  term  "Alligator"  has  been  a 
household  word  in  Virginia. 

291 


THE   PAWNEE    WAR 

the  passage  of  the  ordinance  of  secession,  a  soldier 
ascended  the  wooden  steps  under  the  bell  in  the  little 
brick  tower,  seized  the  heavy  clapper  in  his  hand, 
made  two  hard  strokes,  paused  an  instant,  and  then 
made  a  third.  Sullen  and  deep  the  notes  floated  out 
in  the  balmy  spring  air. 

Far  and  wide  the  toscin  rang  over  the  city,  then  busy 
in  the  worship  of  the  Prince  of  Peace.  The  clergy- 
men of  the  many  churches  hard  by  the  Capitol  Square, 
who  that  morning  for  the  first  time  had  ceased  to  pray 
publicly  for  the  President  of  the  United  States,  were 
uttering  the  after-sermon  petition,  "Grant,  O  Lord, 
that  the  words  that  we  have  this  day  heard,"  when 
"the  outward  ears"  of  their  kneeling  congregations 
were  smitten  by  the  boding  sounds  from  the  brick 
tower.  Ere  the  prayer  was  ended  more  than  half  the 
congregation  had  disappeared.  Scarcely  a  man  re- 
mained in  the  churches.  The  dismay  of  the  clergy- 
men at  witnessing  this  sudden  depletion  of  their  flocks 
was  surpassed  only  by  the  chill  that  struck  to  the  hearts 
of  the  women  when  their  " affray ed  eyes"  were  opened, 
and  fathers,  husbands,  sons,  brothers,  and  lovers  were 
missing. 

Father  of  Mercy!  was  it  possible  that  the  hirelings 
of  Lincoln  had  so  soon  gained  the  vincinity  of  the 
capital  of  the  Old  Dominion,  and  must  priceless  blood 
be  shed  immediately,  and  on  the  Sabbath  day  ?  What 
else  could  this  alarm  and  the  sudden  disappearance 
of  the  men  mean?  How  quickly  the  blooming  cheeks 
paled,  and  the  pulses  in  the  slender  wrists  went  cold 
and  slow! 

292 


THE    PAWNEE   WAR 

There  was  no  one  in  the  city,  familiar  with  "big 
wars,"  to  command 

"Silence  that  dreadful  bell!" 

The  soldier  with  the  clapper  in  his  hand  manfully 
anviled  the  resonant  metal,  and  loud  note  succeeded 
hollow  murmur  until  the  whole  April  air  seemed  vi- 
brating. Thousands  of  lips  were  pleading  for  infor- 
mation, and,  for  a  time,  none  was  found  wise  enough 
to  answer.  Some  terrible  thing  had  happened,  or  was 
about  to  happen  on  the  instant.  What  was  it  ?  What 
could  it  be?  "Rumor,  painted  full  of  tongues,"  was 
never  so  busy  as  during  the  half  hour  after  the  churches 
were  closed  and  the  congregations  dispersed.  But 
presently  the  true  story  was  told,  and  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth  in  hurried,  sometimes  trembling  ac- 
cents: The  Governor  of  Virginia  had  received  official 
intelligence  that  the  Yankee  sloop-of-war  "Pawnee"  had 
passed  City  Point,  at  the  confluence  of  the  Appomattox 
and  James  Rivers,  and  was  steaming  hard  for  Rich- 
mond, with  the  intention  of  shelling  it  and  burning  it 
to  the  ground! 

Monstrous  intelligence!  City  Point  was  sixty  miles 
away;  the  river  was  narrow  and  tortuous;  in  many 
places  the  channel  ran  so  close  to  the  banks  that  the 
felling  of  a  single  tree  would  have  arrested  the  prog- 
ress of  any  vessel;  besides,  the  Pawnee  was  a  wooden 
ship  (monitors  yet  lay  dormant  in  the  brain  of  Erics- 
son), and  the  steep  bluffs  on  the  farms  of  Drewry  and 
Chaffin,  which  afterward  served  the  city  so  well, 
afforded  admirable  vantage  ground  for  field-pieces  and 

293 


THE   PAWNEE   WAR 

perfect  shelter  for  marksmen.  What  gunboat  would 
ever  run  such  a  gauntlet  for  the  mad  chance  of  shelling 
a  city  of  forty  thousand  inhabitants  ?  The  f oolhardiest 
midshipman  in  Uncle  Sam's  service,  even  when  crazed 
with  sweet  champagne  extracted  from  the  pippins  of 
the  Jerseys  and  medicated  in  the  cellars  of  the  Five 
Points,  never  dreamed  of  so  insane  a  project.  All 
this  is  very  plain,  now  that  three  eventful  years  overlie 
that  memorable  Sunday  in  Richmond.  It  was  not  so 
clear  to  the  excited  inhabitants,  new  to  all  the  strategy 
and  appliances  of  war.  A  few  saw  the  absurdity  of 
the  matter;  but  the  men  made  ready  to  meet  the 
enemy,  come  how  he  might,  though  all  felt  that  this 
aquatic  onset  was  a  most  ungenerous  and  contemptible 
mode  of  attacking  a  people  accustomed  only  to  dry- 
land engagements  with  partridges  and  squirrels.  The 
companies  of  the  First  Regiment  of  Virginia  Volun- 
teers repaired  promptly  to  their  drill-rooms,  and  in  an 
incredibly  short  space  of  time  were  ready  for  marching 
orders.  Randolph's  battery  of  light  howitzers  was 
equally  prompt,  and  so  was  the  only  troop  of  horse  the 
city  could  muster — the  "Governor's  Mounted  Guard," 
as  it  was  called.  All  told,  there  were  perhaps  between 
six  and  seven  hundred  organized  men,  most  of  whom 
were  as  familiar  with  military  forms  as  volunteers  in 
time  of  peace  ever  are.  These  were  prepared  for  any 
duty  they  might  be  called  on  to  perform  in  less  than  an 
hour  from  the  time  the  bell  began  tolling. 

There  were  some  affecting  scenes.  Mothers,  sis- 
ters, and  sweethearts  came  down  to  the  drill-rooms, 
to  interchange  a  parting  word  with  the  young  men, 

294 


THE   PAWNEE   WAR 

and  to  fill  their  haversacks  with  something  good  to 
eat.  These  tender,  inexperienced  girls  beheld  in  imag- 
ination the  manly  forms  of  their  loved  ones  torn  and 
mangled  by  pitiless  fragments  of  Yankee  shells,  soon 
to  explode  over  the  doomed  city,  and  in  the  midst  of 
the  serried  ranks  of  infantry.  No  wonder  the  fine 
young  fellows  felt  a  tremor  about  the  heart  and  a  suf- 
fusion of  the  eyes  which  ill  became  veteran  soldiers  who 
had  taken  part  in  the  John  Brown  war.  No  wonder 
they  wished  the  "women  would  go  home  and  quit 
bothering."  But  these  partings,  affecting  as  they 
were,  sank  into  insignificance  when  compared  with 
the  solemn  and  energetic  earnestness  of  the  male  citi- 
zens who  did  not  belong  to  the  volunteer  companies, 
but  felt  it,  nevertheless,  to  be  their  bounden  duty  to 
defend  their  city,  their  families,  and  their  properties 
from  the  ravages  of  the  ruthless  and  watery  invader. 
There  was  a  gathering  in  hot  haste  of  these,  which 
might  well  have  vied  with  that  in  Belgium's  capital, 
besung  by  the  Lord  George  Gordon  Noel  Byron. 
What  weapons  did  they  not  seize? — fowling-pieces 
mortally  oxydized;  immemorial  duck-guns,  of  pro- 
digious bore;  ancient  falchions  that  had  flashed  in 
the  eyes  of  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown;  pistols  of  every 
conceivable  calibre,  and  of  all  possible  shades  of  in- 
utility; and,  in  one  instance  at  least,  a  veritable  blund- 
erbuss, so  encompassed  with  verdigris  that  it  passed 
for  a  cucumber  of  precocious  growth!  All  these, 
loaded  or  unloaded,  with  or  without  caps  or  flints,  to 
fight  a  gunboat  mounted  with  ten-inch  Columbiads! 
Everything  that  could  shoot  or  cut  was  called  into 

295 


THE   PAWNEE   WAR 

requisition,  and  Sutherland  the  gunsmith,  albeit  it 
was  Sunday,  was  called  upon  to  open  his  store,  and, 
complying,  did  a  rousing  business,  disposing  of  nearly 
all  his  stock  of  arms  and  fixed  ammunition  in  two 
short  hours — the  result  of  which  was  the  enhancement, 
the  very  next  day,  of  revolvers,  bowie-knives,  dirks, 
and  even  long-bladed  clasp-knives,  to  the  extent  of 
full  fifty  per  cent. 

Heavier  metal  than  any  Sutherland  had  to  sell  was 
needed  in  the  great  trial  at  hand,  and  of  this  the  citi- 
zen heroes  were  well  aware.  Accordingly,  a  party 
of  them  rushed  to  the  Virginia  armory,  and  out  of  the 
large  store  of  ancient  ordnance  there  accumulated, 
selected  one  of  a  pair  of  magnificent  bronze  guns, 
quaintly  but  beautifully  embellished,  which  had  been 
presented  to  the  State  by  the  Count  de  Rochambeau 
in  the  name  of  the  French  Government.  This  rare 
and  costly  piece,  weighing  probably  two  tons,  was  by 
some  strange  art,  which  the  frenzy  of  the  moment  sug- 
gested, hoisted  upon  a  dray,  or  some  other  strong 
vehicle.  A  mixed  multitude  of  horses,  mules,  and 
men  were  hurriedly  gathered,  the  motley  motive  power 
applied,  and  the  whole  party  dashed  up  the  hill  to 
Main  Street,  and  then  down  the  street  at  a  terrific 
pace,  until  they  reached  the  Custom  House,  and 
there  the  brave  old  gun,  indignant  at  the  rough,  unmili- 
tary  usage  it  had  received,  incontinently  leaped  out  of 
the  dray  into  the  street,'  where  it  lay  for  many  weeks, 
a  stranded  Triton  among  the  schools  of  martial  min- 
nows that  floated  by  it,  much  wondering  at  its  great 
size  and  the  purpose  for  which  it  had  been  placed  in 

296 


THE   PAWNEE   WAR 

that  position — the  majority  being  of  opinion  that  it 
was  put  there  to  defend,  not  the  Custom  House,  for 
that  contained  no  treasure,  but  the  Virginia  Banks, 
just  opposite.  How  this  was  to  be  effected  was  not 
clear,  seeing  that  the  gun  was  on  the  ground  and  there 
was  probably  neither  a  ball  nor  a  cartridge  in  the  city 
to  fit  it;  but  the  military  critics  of  those  days  were 
mostly  from  the  country,  and  not  familiar,  as  thousands 
of  them  now  are,  with  the  manual  of  heavy  artillery. 
It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  infantry,  light 
artillery  and  horse  waited  for  the  upsetting  of  the  big 
gun.  By  no  means.  Long  before  they  had  marched 
off,  under  what  commander-in-chief  history  has  failed 
to  record,  in  the  direction  of  Rocketts — the  euphonious 
title  of  the  lower  part  of  the  city — near  the  wharves 
and  the  landings  of  the  sea-going  steamers  that  then 
plied  between  Richmond  and  the  principal  maritime 
cities  of  the  North.  Meantime  every  "coign  of  van- 
tage" was  occupied  by  anxious  watchers.  Wives, 
whose  tearful  weight  had  just  relieved  the  throttled 
necks  of  husbands  already  heavily  freighted  with  horse- 
pistols,  bowie-knives,  brandy-flasks,  and  cold  ham  and 
biscuit,  were  now  recovered  from  their  "wounds," 
and  straining  their  eyes  from  the  upper  windows  and 
porches  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  dreaded 
Pawnee.  The  top  of  the  capitol,  the  tops  of  houses, 
church  steeples,  the  "observatories,"  as  they  are  un- 
scientifically called,  of  hotels,  and  every  high  point  in 
and  around  the  city,  were  alive  with  human  beings. 
Church  Hill  in  particular,  which  overlooks  the  river 
at   Rocketts,   was   swarming   with   human   beings   of 

297 


THE    PAWNEE    WAR 

both  sexes,  all  ages,  and  every  complexion,  for  the  ne- 
groes were  now  as  anxious  and  excited  as  their  masters 
and  mistresses. 

It  was  whispered  that  the  Grand  Army  of  Rich- 
mond intended  to  "make  a  stand"  at  Rocketts,  and 
give  battle  to  the  Pawnee,  for  it  was  taken  for  granted 
that  that  vessel  would  make  fast  to  the  wharf  before 
she  opened  her  broadsides  or  gave  tongue  even  to  the 
pivot  rifle  in  the  bow.  This  was  an  additional  incen- 
tive to  the  dense  crowd  on  Church  Hill  to  remain  just 
where  they  were,  at  least  until  the  enemy  hove  in 
sight.  The  army  did  make  a  stand  at  Rocketts,  but 
it  was  merely  a  halt  for  refreshments — fresh  quids  of 
tobacco.  The  line  of  glittering  bayonets  was  soon 
again  in  motion,  the  cannon  rumbled,  the  war-horses 
kicked  up  a  mighty  dust,  and  the  column  quickly 
wound  over  the  hill  and  was  out  of  sight.  Still  the 
multitudes  on  the  towers  and  house-tops  watched  and 
waited.  Like  a  serpentine  silver  band  the  river  lay 
stretched  before  them,  miles  and  miles  away,  without 
a  cloud  to  dim  its  tranquil  argent  sheen.  Far  or  near, 
none  could  descry  the  Pawnee.  The  sun  sank  low, 
and  at  length  set  in  the  peaceful  heavens.  Still  no 
Pawnee.  Twilight  deepened  into  night,  the  church 
bells  called  the  people  from  the  hills  and  house-tops 
to  prayers — prayers  of  gratitude  for  deliverance  from 
"the  pestilence  that  steameth  at  noon-day."  but  doth 
not  often  venture  up  narrow,  shallow,  and  unknown 
channels  when  thick  darkness  covereth  the  earth. 
The  Pawnee  never  came.  The  troops  bivouacked 
that  night  in  the  fields  on  the  river-shore,  some  five  or 

298 


THE    PAWNEE    WAR 

six  miles  below  the  city,  and  marched  back  the  next 
day  to  resume  the  exercises  which  were  to  fit  them 
for  actual  service,  of  which  they  were  destined  to  see 
far  more  than  they  dreamed.  The  night  was  mild, 
and  the  march,  the  bivouac,  and  the  shell  practice  in 
which  the  Howitzers  indulged  the  following  morning, 
were  regarded  by  the  "boys"  as  a  jolly  frolic.  No 
accident  and  but  one  untoward  event  happened.  A 
son  of  Dr.  Beverley  Tucker,  Professor  in  the  Rich- 
mond Medical  College,  contracted  that  night  a  pul- 
monary disease  which  speedily  proved  fatal.  Young 
Tucker  was,  in  Virginia  at  least,  the  first  victim  of  the 
war. 

Thus  began,  progressed,  and  ended  the  famous 
"Pawnee  War."  We  may  laugh  at  it  now,  for  there 
were  many  laughable  things  about  it.  Not  the  least 
of  these  was  the  consternation  produced  in  the  coun- 
try about  Richmond  by  the  exaggerated  reports  car- 
ried out  of  the  corporate  limits  by  self-elected  couriers. 
Among  other  wild  stories,  was  one  to  the  effect  that 
the  Pawnee  Indians  had  come  down  the  Central  Rail- 
road, taken  possession  of  the  city,  and  were  scalping 
and  tomahawking  the  citizens  at  a  frightful  rate.  This 
story  was  actually  believed,  and  many  agitated  ladies 
fled  to  the  house  of  a  daughter  of  General  Richardson, 
the  Adjutant-General  of  Virginia,  as  if  there  was  a 
charm  about  that  powerful  title  which  ensured  safety 
to  all  its  owner's  relatives  and  friends.  Yes,  we  may 
laugh  at  the  Pawnee  War,  and  own  frankly  that  there 
was  something  of  a  panic  that  day  in  Richmond.  But 
then,   as   in   times   more   alarming,   when    the    tocsin 

299 


THE   PAWNEE   WAR 

again  sounded,  and  with  better  cause,  Richmond 
showed  fight,  and  doubtless  would  have  made  it  had 
there  been  occasion.  If  that  was  her  first  panic,  it 
was  her  last.  A  year  afterward  one  hundred  thousand 
men,  and  thrice  one  hundred  pieces  of  cannon  threat- 
ened her,  with  scarce  an  earthwork  between  them  and 
their  prey;  but  she  was  calm  and  smiling,  for  Lee  con- 
fronted the  host  of  her  foes,  and  Jackson  was  coming. 


300 


XIV 
HOW  RUBENSTEIN  PLAYED 

"  TUD,  they  say  you  heard  Rubenstein  play  when  you 
**    were  in  New  York." 

"I  did,  in  the  cool." 

"Well,  tell  us  about  it." 

"What!  me?  I  might's  well  tell  you  about  the 
creation  of  the  world." 

"Come,  now;   no  mock  modesty.     Go  ahead." 

"Well,  sir,  he  had  the  blamedest,  biggest,  catty- 
cornedest  pianner  you  ever  laid  eyes  on;  somethin' 
like  a  distractid  billiard  table  on  three  legs.  The  lid 
was  heisted,  and  mighty  well  it  was.  If  it  hadn't 
been  he'd  a-tore  the  intire  insides  clean  out,  and  scat- 
tered 'em  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven." 

"Played  well,  did  he?" 

"You  bet  he  did;  but  don't  interrup' me.  When  he 
first  set  down  he  'peard  to  keer  mighty  little  'bout 
play  in',  and  wished  he  hadn'  come.  He  tweedle- 
leedled  a  little  on  the  trible,  and  twoodle-oodle-oodled 
some  on  the  base — just  foolin'  and  boxin'  the  thing's 
jaws  for  bein'  in  his  way.  And  I  says  to  a  man  settin' 
next  to  me,  s'l,  'what  sort  of  fool  playin'  is  that?' 
And  he  says,  'Heish!'  But  presently  his  hands  com- 
menced chasm'  one  'nother  up  and  down  the  keys, 

301 


HOW  RUBENSTEIN   PLAYED 

like  a  passel  of  rats  scamperin'  through  a  garret  very 
swift.  Parts  of  it  was  sweet,  though,  and  reminded 
me  of  a  sugar  squirrel  turnin'  the  wheel  of  a  candy 
cage. 

"  'Now,'  I  says  to  my  neighbor,  'he's  showin'  off. 
He  thinks  he's  a  doing  of  it;  but  he  ain't  got  no  idee, 
no  plan  of  nuthin'.  If  he'd  play  me  up  a  tune  of 
some  kind  or  other,  I'd ' 

"But  my  neighbor  says  'Heish!'  very  impatient. 

"I  was  just  about  to  git  up  and  go  home,  bein' 
tired  of  that  foolishness,  when  I  heard  a  little  bird 
waking  up  away  off  in  the  woods,  and  calling  sleepy- 
like  to  his  mate,  and  I  looked  up  and  I  see  that  Ruben 
was  beginnin'  to  take  some  interest  in  his  business, 
and  I  set  down  agin.  It  was  the  peep  'o  day.  The 
light  come  faint  from  the  east,  the  breeze  blowed 
gentle  and  fresh,  some  more  birds  waked  up  in  the 
orchard,  then  some  more  in  the  trees  near  the  house, 
and  all  begun  singin'  together.  People  begun  to  stir, 
and  the  gal  opened  the  shutters.  Just  then  the  first 
beam  of  the  sun  fell  upon  the  blossoms;  a  leetle  more 
and  it  tetcht  the  roses  on  the  bushes,  and  the  next 
thing  it  was  broad  day;  the  sun  fairly  blazed;  the 
birds  sang  like  they'd  split  their  little  throats;  all  the 
leaves  was  movin',  and  flashin'  diamonds  of  dew,  and 
the  whole  wide  world  was  bright  and  happy  as  a 
king.  Seemed  to  me  like  there  was  a  good  breakfast 
in  every  house  in  the  land,  and  not  a  sick  child  or 
woman  anywhere.     It  was  a  fine  mornin'. 

"And  I  says  to  my  neighbor,  'That's  music,  that  is.' 

"But  he  glar'd  at  me  like  he'd  like  to  cut  my  throat. 

302 


HOW  RUBENSTEIN   PLAYED 

"Presently  the  wind  turned;  it  begun  to  thicken  up, 
and  a  kind  of  gray  mist  come  over  things;  I  got  low- 
spirited  d'rectly.  Then  a  silver  rain  began  to  fall.  I 
could  see  the  drops  touch  the  ground;  some  flashed  up 
like  long  pearl  ear-rings,  and  the  rest  rolled  away  like 
round  rubies.  It  was  pretty,  but  melancholy.  Then 
the  pearls  gathered  themselves  into  long  strands  and 
necklaces,  and  then  they  melted  into  thin  silver  streams 
running  between  golden  gravels,  and  then  the  streams 
joined  each  other  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  made 
a  brook  that  flowed  silent  except  that  you  could  kinder 
see  the  music,  specially  when  the  bushes  on  the  banks 
moved  as  the  music  went  along  down  the  valley.  I 
could  smell  the  flowers  in  the  meadow.  But  the  sun 
didn't  shine,  nor  the  birds  sing;  it  was  a  foggy  day, 
but  not  cold.  The  most  curious  thing  was  the  little 
white  angel  boy,  like  you  see  in  pictures,  that  run 
ahead  of  the  music  brook,  and  led  it  on,  and  on,  away 
out  of  the  world,  where  no  man  ever  was — I  never 
was,  certain.  I  couid  see  that  boy  just  as  plain  as  I 
see  you.  Then  the  moonlight  came,  without  any  sun- 
set, and  shone  on  the  grave-yards,  where  some  few 
ghosts  lifted  their  hands  and  went  over  the  wall,  and 
between  the  black  sharp-top  trees  splendid  marble 
houses  rose  up,  with  fine  ladies  in  the  lit  up  windows, 
and  men  that  loved  'em,  but  could  never  get  a-nigh 
'em,  and  played  on  guitars  under  the  trees,  and  made 
me  that  miserable  I  could  a-cried,  because  I  wanted 
to  love  somebody,  I  don't  know  who  better  than  the 
men  with  guitars  did.  Then  the  sun  went  down,  it 
got  dark,  the  wind  moaned  and  wept  like  a  lost  child 

303 


HOW  RUBENSTEIN   PLAYED 

for  its  dead  mother,  and  I  could  a  got  up  then  and 
there  and  preached  a  better  sermon  than  any  I  ever 
listened  to.  There  wasn't  a  thing  in  the  world  left 
to  live  for,  not  a  blame  thing,  and  yet  I  didn't  want 
the  music  to  stop  one  bit.  It  was  happier  to  be  miser- 
able than  to  be  happy  without  being  miserable.  I 
couldn't  understand  it.  I  hung  my  head  and  pulled 
out  my  hankerchief,  and  blowed  my  nose  loud  to  keep 
from  cryin'.  My  eyes  is  weak  anyway;  I  didn't  want 
anybody  to  be  a-gazin'  at  me  a-snivlin',  and  its  no- 
body's business  what  I  do  with  my  nose.  It's  mine. 
But  some  several  glared  at  me,  mad  as  Tucker. 

"Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  old  Ruben  changed  his 
tune.  He  ripped  and  he  rar'd,  he  tipped  and  tar'd, 
he  pranced  and  he  charged  like  the  grand  entry  at  a 
circus.  'Peared  to  me  that  all  the  gas  in  the  house 
was  turned  on  at  once,  things  got  so  bright,  and  I  hilt 
up  my  head,  ready  to  look  any  man  in  the  face,  and 
not  afeard  of  nothin'.  It  was  a  circus,  and  a  brass 
band,  and  a  big  ball,  all  goin'  on  at  the  same  time. 
He  lit  into  them  keys  like  a  thousand  of  brick,  he  give 
'em  no  rest,  day  nor  night;  he  set  every  livin'  joint 
in  me  a-goin',  and  not  bein'  able  to  stand  it  no  longer, 
I  jumpt  spang  onto  my  seat,  and  jest  hollored: 

'"Go  it,  my  Rube!' 

"Every  blamed  man,  woman  and  child  in  the  house 
riz  on  me,  and  shouted,  'Put  him  out!  put  him  out!' 

"  'Put  your  great-grandmother's  grizzly-gray-green- 
ish cat  into  the  middle  of  next  month!'  I  says.  'Tech 
me,  if  you  dare !  I  paid  my  money,  and  you  jest  come 
a-nigh  me.' 

304 


HOW  RUBENSTEIN   PLAYED 

"With  that,  some  several  p'licemen  run  up,  and  I 
had  to  simmer  down.  But  I  would  a  fit  any  fool  that 
laid  hands  on  me,  for  I  was  bound  to  hear  Ruby  out 
or  die. 

"He  had  changed  his  tune  again.  He  hopt-light 
ladies  and  tip-toed  fine  from  eend  to  eend  of  the  key- 
board. He  played  soft,  and  low,  and  solemn.  I 
heard  the  church  bells  over  the  hills.  The  candles 
in  heaven  was  lit,  one  by  one.  I  saw  the  stars  rise. 
The  great  organ  of  eternity  began  to  play  from  the 
world's  end  to  the  world's  end,  and  all  the  angels  went 
to  prayers.  Then  the  music  changed  to  water,  full  of 
feeling  that  couldn't  be  thought,  and  began  to  drop — 
drip,  drop,  drip,  drop — clear  and  sweet,  like  tears  of 
joy  fallin'  into  a  lake  of  glory.  It  was  sweeter  than 
that.  It  was  as  sweet  as  a  sweetheart  sweetenin'  sweet- 
ness with  white  sugar,  mixt  with  powdered  silver  and 
seed  diamonds.  It  was  too  sweet.  I  tell  you  the  audi- 
ence cheered.  Ruben  he  kinder  bowed,  like  he  wanted 
to  say,  'Much  obleeged,  but  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't 
interrup'  me.' 

"He  stopt  a  minute  or  two,  to  fetch  breath.  Then 
he  got  mad.  He  run  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  he 
shoved  up  his  sleeves,  he  opened  his  coat  tails  a  leetle 
further,  he  drug  up  his  stool,  he  leaned  over,  and,  sir, 
he  just  went  for  that  old  pianner.  He  slapt  her  face, 
he  boxed  her  jaws,  he  pulled  her  nose,  he  pinched  her 
ears  and  he  scratched  her  cheeks,  till  she  farly  yelled. 
He  knockt  her  down  and  he  stompt  on  her  shameful. 
She  bellowed  like  a  bull,  she  bleated  like  a  calf,  she 
howled  like  a  hound,  she  squeeled  like  a  pig,  she 

305 


HOW   RUBENSTEIN   PLAYED 

shrieked  like  a  rat,  and  then  he  wouldn't  let  her  up. 
He  run  a  quarter-stretch  down  the  low  grounds  of  the 
base,  till  he  got  clean  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and 
you  heard  thunder  galloping  after  thunder,  through 
the  hollows  and  caves  of  perdition;  and  then  he  fox- 
chased  his  right  hand  with  his  left  till  he  got  away 
out  of  the  treble  into  the  clouds,  whar  the  notes  was 
finer  than  the  pints  of  cambric  needles,  and  you 
couldn't  hear  nothin'  but  the  shadders  of  'em.  And 
then  he  wouldn't  let  the  old  pianner  go.  He  for'ard- 
two'd,  he  crost  over  first  gentleman,  he  crost  over  first 
lady,  he  balanced  to  pards,  he  chassade  right  and 
left,  back  to  your  places,  he  all  hands'd  aroun',  ladies 
to  the  right,  promenade  all,  in  and  out,  here  and  there, 
back  and  forth,  up  and  down,  perpetual  motion, 
doubled  and  twisted,  and  tied,  and  turned,  and  tacked, 
and  tangled  into  forty-'leven  thousand  double  bow- 
knots.  By  jings!  it  was  a  mixtery.  And  then  he 
wouldn't  let  the  old  pianner  go.  He  fetcht  up  his 
right  wing,  he  fetcht  up  his  left  wing,  he  fetcht  up  his 
centre,  he  fetched  up  his  reserves.  He  fired  by  file, 
he  fired  by  platoons,  by  company,  by  regiments  and 
by  brigades.  He  opened  his  cannon,  siege  guns  down 
thar,  Napoleons  here,  twelve-pounders  yonder,  big 
guns,  little  guns,  middle-size  guns,  round  shot,  shell, 
shrapnel,  grape,  canister,  mortars,  mines  and  maga- 
zines, every  livin'  battery  and  bomb  a'goin'  at  the 
same  time.  The  house  trembled,  the  lights  danced, 
the  walls  shuk,  the  floor  come  up,  the  ceilin'  come 
down,  the  sky  split,  the  ground  rockt — heavens  and 
earth,   creation,   sweet  potatoes,   Moses,   nine-pences, 

306 


HOW  RUBENSTEIN   PLAYED 

glory,  ten-penny  nails,  my  Mary  Ann,  hallelujah, 
Samson  in  a  'simmon  tree,  Jeroosal'm,  Tump  Tomp- 
son  in  a  tumbler-cart,  roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — 
ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddle — raddle-addle-addle-addle- 
addle  — riddle  -  iddle  -  iddle  -  iddle — reetle  - eetle-eetle- 
eetle-eetle-eetle — p-r-r-r-r-r-lang!  per  lang!  per  plang! 
p-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-lang!     Bang! 

"With  that  bang!  he  lifted  hisself  bodily  into  the  ar', 
and  he  come  down  with  his  knees,  his  ten  fingers,  his 
ten  toes,  his  elbows  and  his  nose,  striking  every  single 
solitary  key  on  that  pianner  at  the  same  time.  The 
thing  busted  and  went  off  into  seventeen  hundred  and 
fifty-seven  thousand  five  hundred  and  forty-two  hemi- 
demi-semi-quivers,  and  I  know'd  no  mo'. 

"When  I  come  too,  I  were  under  ground  about 
twenty  foot,  in  a  place  they  call  Oyster  Bay,  treatin' 
a  Yankee  that  I  never  laid  eyes  on  before,  and  never 
expect  to  ag'in.  Day  was  a  breakin'  by  the  time  I 
got  to  the  St.  Nicholas  Hotel,  and  I  pledge  you  my 
word  I  didn't  know  my  name.  The  man  asked  me 
the  number  of  my  room,  and  I  told  him,  'Hot  music 
on  the  half-shell  for  two!'  I  pintedly  did." 


307 


FILL  JOANSES 

A  MONEFUL  DITTE 

WHEN  I  wuz  yung  and  in  my  priem, 
I  had  sum  meat  uppun  my  boanses; 
I  loss  it  all  in  sicks  weeks'  time, 
At  a  place  they  call  Fill  Joanses. 

Too  and  20  yeer  agoe  it  were — 
I  cack'late  it  by  my  groanses — 

That  I  set  4th  from  Linchbug  toun 
On  a  vizzit  to  Fill  Joanses. 

Miss  Bobry,  she  wuz  with  me,  too, 
And  Wilyum,  bruther  of  Fill  Joanses, 

Miss  Jessie,  with  her  eye  so  blue, — 
Wuz  all  a-stayin'  at  Fill  Joanses. 


'Twuz  in  the  good  old  days  of  ole — 
We  was  Monnuks  on  our  throanses — 

The  crap  was  wuth  its  weight  in  gole, 
At  the  plais  they  call  Fill  Joanses. 

Fillup  then  were  but  a  boy, 

And  Sedden  toddlin  oar  the  stoanses, 
He  holp  us  to  cumpleet  our  joy 

While  a-stayin'  at  Fill  Joanses. 
308 


FILL  JOANSES 

Big  Mister  Willis  at  the  mill, 
He  had  sum  meat  uppun  his  boanses; 

Frank  Gnawl,  he  clum  the  red-clay  hill, 
And  Farmer  John  cum  down  to  Joanses. 

Miss  Mary  Stannud,  she  was  thar — 
How  mellojus  was  her  toanses! 

Anuther  gearl  that  had  black  har, 
And  menny  mo',  wuz  at  Fill  Joanses. 

Sech  dinin'  out  and  dinin'  in, 

Sech  drivin'  o'er  the  rocky  stoanses! 

My  soul!  I  think  it  were  a  sin, 

The  way  they  liv'd  aroun'  Fill  Joanses. 

Sech  lamb  and  jelly — everything, — 
But  I  were  usen  to  corn  poanses; 

Fat  mutton  was  the  truck — by  jing! 

That  laid  me  out  at  Fillup  Joanses. 

For  from  that  day  untoo  this  hour— 
The  sartin  fack  to  all  well  known  is— 
My  stummuk,  she  have  loss  her  power, 
And  leff  it  all  at  Fillup  Joanses. 

Dyspepsy  are  a  fearful  ill; 

'Tis  made  of  grunts  and  made  of  groanses; 
No  tiem  will  settle  that  ar  bill 

That  I  cuntrackted  at  Fill  Joanses. 

My  days  is  past  in  constunt  pain, 
My  nites  in  everlastin'  moanses; 
309 


FILL  JOANSES 

And  oft  I  cuss,  and  cuss  in  vain, 
That  fatal  summer  at  Fill  Joanses. 

But  sert'ny  I  duz  luv  to  eet — 
Man  warn't  made  to  live  on  stoanses; 

And  now  I  know  'twuz  hard  to  beat 
That  blessid  summer  at  Fill  Joanses. 

Ah!  tiems  is  sadly  changed  since  then; 

The  Yanks  has  got  us  for  thar  oanses; 
Thar's  not  a  man,  not  one  in  ten, 

Livs  like  they  lived  at  Fillup  Joanses. 

Bad  as  I  feel,  ef  I  could  bring 

Them  days  agin,  I'd  heish  my  groanses; 
I'd  fill  my  stummuk  with  mint  sling, 

And  dine  wunst  mo'  at  Fillup  Joanses. 

The  good  ole  man  is  livin'  still, 
As  young  as  ever  in  his  boanses; 

Lass  tiem  I  clum  the  red-clay  hill, 
They  had  good  eatin'  at  Fill  Joanses. 

So  mote  it  bee,  so  mote  it  bee, 

Twell  deth  shall  heish  up  all  our  groanses; 
For  not  twell  then  will  I  agree 

To  eat  no  mo'  at  Fillup  Joanses. 


310 


AFTER  APPOMATTOX 

"  On  his  way  to  Richmond,  General  Lee  stopped  for  the  night 
near  the  residence  of  his  brother,  Mr.  Carter  Lee,  of  Powhatan 
county;  and,  although  importuned  by  his  brother  to  pass  the 
night  under  his  roof,  the  General  persisted  in  pitching  his  tent  by 
the  side  of  the  road,  and  going  into  camp  as  usual." — Taylor's 
"Four  Years  with  General  Lee,"  page  154. 

UPON  a  hill-top,  bold  and  free, 
Ere  that  sad  day  is  done, 
The  soldier  form  and  face  of  Lee 
Stand  out  against  the  sun. 

The  strong,  grey  head  is  carried  high, 

The  firm  hand  grasps  the  rein; 
Earth  nowhere  holds  such  majesty, 

And  nowhere  hides  such  pain. 

A  little  onward  now  he  rides, 

For  he  alone  would  be; 
But  something  more  than  space  divides 

His  staff  from  Robert  Lee. 

Scarce  can  he  tell  the  way  he  goes, 
Scarce  feels  the  April  air; 
311 


AFTER   APPOMATTOX 

Heap'd  in  his  breast,  his  country's  woes 
Have  filled  him  with  despair. 

The  purple  mountains  fade  behind, 

Before  him  lies  the  sea; 
In  all  this  world  a  fate  unkind 

Leaves  home  nor  hope  for  Lee. 

The  rosy  flush  dies  on  the  plain, 

And  dismal  shadows  start; 
What  tumult  in  his  riven  brain, 

What  torture  in  his  heart! 

The  bright'ning  stars  are  naught  to  him, 
Nor  aught  the  sweet  moonlight; 

His  star  has  grown  a-sudden  dim — 
He  never  more  shall  fight. 

His  work  seems  done,  his  day  seems  spent. 

What  matters  night  or  day! 
He  will  betake  him  to  his  tent, 

And,  kneeling  there,  will  pray. 

The  cries  that  upward  went  that  night 
Unto  the  great  White  Throne — 

The  tears  for  guidance  and  for  light- 
To  God  alone  are  known. 

Sacred  throughout  all  coming  time, 
Those  sleepless  hours  shall  be; 

For  who  can  tell,  in  words  sublime, 
The  agony  of  Lee  ? 
312 


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